


All My Stars

by cowboykylux



Series: Medieval Knight Kylo AU [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blood and Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting, Historical Accuracy, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Swooning, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-04 04:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21191309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboykylux/pseuds/cowboykylux
Summary: The year is 1346. War ravages the land, and you are torn from your family to reside with the royal household of the Organas until it is safe. However you know there are more plots at play here, and you feel bitter and alone, until one mysterious Knight clad all in black bursts through the doors of the great hall, and into your heart, forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Please forgive my break in updating my usual wips, for I have fallen down a deep rabbit hole of love for this medieval au I concocted just the other day! I hope you enjoy!!
> 
> (Edit!! As of 10/30/19 this fic is complete! It was originally posted in only 3 large chapters, but I felt that was too much, lol, so I have broken this story into 8 more manageable chapters. It is the same writing, just easier to read! I hope you all enjoy, thank you for your patience <33)

You did not know how it began, or when, the siege. All you know is there is smoke from flame all around you, as arrows with burning ends fire through the sky, pierce the exposed flesh of man and woman alike.

There are screams of terror in the air, and you look around frantically, lost and afraid – for it is the English, and they have come to take the castle. Smoke and ash stings your eyes and it is dark, so dark, and you cannot see as you run blindly into the fray, careful not to trip over the bodies of those which lay strewn on the ground, crimson seeping through their smocks.

A choir somewhere in the distance sings, and you fear that it is God herself calling you, telling you your time is up. When a hand grasps around your wrist, you shout, attempt to wrangle yourself away, for you know the punishment women are put through as a prisoner of war and you would rather die than give a man such satisfaction.

You raise your hand to punch, but the smoke clears enough for you to see it is just your father.

“You must go.” He shouts, voice loud and commanding as he must compete with the sounds of war, the raging clank and crash of metal upon metal, of horses whinnying and the sobs of children.

“But I – ”

“(Y/N) I do not care, your life is in danger here.” Your father pleads as he drags you through the raging town, through the scrimmage.

You panic, terrified of being sent away. For that has been the plan, has always been the plan, should the English invade. 

“And will my life fare better in Alderaan? Pray tell father, what is there to say the English may not find me?” You plant your feet and beg, fall to your knees before your father and beg, “Please, I would rather stay with my family, my friends! I do not know this Queen as you do, have not once met her ward.”

Your father is normally a most compassionate man, but as he hauls you to your feet and whistles for your horse, you know this is a losing battle.

“You know her enough to be housed and fed, you will accept her hospitality with grace, and you will hire a bodyguard, one who is capable. We will pay him handsomely, and he will protect you.” He holds you close, whispers into your ear so that only you may hear him, “When I die, you will become Queen, (Y/N). I need you safe, above all else, no matter the cost.” 

The embrace is not one of length, but there is comfort nonetheless. You sigh, choke on the smoke, and mount your steed, Agnes. She is a beautiful horse with chocolate hair, and she is known as the fastest in France. Her hooves dig into the earth, she is anxious to flee.

“I will write to you when I have arrived.” You say, tears streaming down your face, getting a last glimpse at your father, for he may not come out of this war alive.

“Thank you.” He says, but there is no joy in his eyes when he does.

He slaps the horse’s hide, and your cloak billows behind you as she takes off at full speed, away from your home, away from your life. You steal a glance over your shoulder and watch as your father runs back into the fire, into the fray.

Marseille burns.

* * *

It takes three days to reach the city limits of Alderaan. Three days of solitary riding, of not another living soul. You eat the bread that has been packed for you, pick the fruits of trees you pass. The countryside is beautiful, this you cannot deny, not with the way the sky is so blue, and the grass is so green.

When you approach the gates of the castle, you are welcomed with such an immediacy that it sours your stomach. You had wished to perhaps have a moment to rest, to catch your breath. Instead there is a committee awaiting you at the gate, all dressed in regal finery that puts your soot stained kirtle to shame.

A squire offers you his hand as you dismount from Agnes, holds you steady while you walk the few stairs they have placed at your feet. You think that is unnecessary, you have jumped from many a horse in your day, but you do your best to simply smile despite the tumultuous past few days.

“Announcing the presence of her royal highness, Princess (Y/N), Lady of Krakow.” The squire says, and everyone bows.

All except for Queen Leia, who is in attendance and dressed with such wealth that you wonder if she put it all on at once for the occasion, or if she simply dresses like this on a daily basis. Her hair is braided and pinned in thick loops at her ears, covered by a pearl encrusted crispinette. Her veil is studded with diamonds as it flows in the gentle breeze, and her surcoat is a deep blue and gold silk damask.

You feel wholly inadequate in your linen kirtle, hair left hanging in one long braid down your back. But then again, she had not been the one fleeing a crumbling city.

You curtsey before her with all the civility you can muster. 

“Your Majesty, it is with most sincerity that I thank you for welcoming me to your home.” You say, and for some reason, she chuckles.

“The pleasure is entirely mine.” She says, allowing you to rise as she gestures to the other members who have awaited your arrival. “May I introduce you to my dear brother, His Grace Lord Luke, and my ward, Sir Poe Dameron, Lord and Heir Apparent of Alderaan.”

He preens under the introduction, no doubt ego stroked by the many title he holds. You regard him carefully, take note of the way his tousled hair curls this way and that, his sharp jawline in desperate need of a shave. He holds himself with far too high regard, if the way his chest is puffed and his shoulders are square is anything to go by.

“Sir Dameron, I have heard many a thing about you.” You curtsy, and Poe flashes you a smile that is blindingly white.

“All good I hope.” He says with a playful grin, but you find yourself not in the mood to jest. 

“Of course.” You say instead, hoping to not encourage anymore of that for the evening.

The Queen snaps her fingers and a beautiful woman nearly a foot taller than you steps forward. Her blonde hair is pale where you can see it poking out from under her veil.

“And this is Gwendoline, she is to be your lady’s maid for the duration of your stay.” Queen Leia says, and you are thrilled to be in the company of a woman relatively your age.

“Hello Gwendoline. Did my father mention to you at all how long that might be?” You ask, startling the committee, who all look among one another with murmurs and hesitation in their eyes, “Forgive me, I was told very little as you can imagine, my departure was made with great haste.”

You attempt a smile at them, though your face stings from the wind of three days on horseback.

“There was no mention of any length of time.” The Bishop says, hands steepled in front of him in great contemplation, “In fact, we were hoping, that perhaps you and Sir Dameron would find companionship within one another. That perhaps you would like to remain here, once the fighting is over.”

The announcement of this news has your eyebrows raising – of all the sneaky plots!

“I am aware you are in need of a bodyguard.” Sir Dameron pipes up, but you simply look him up and down.

“Yes, I have been tasked with finding one.” You remark, not wanting to give him the wrong idea.

“We have many strong men in the village, I am certain you’ll find one sooner than you think.” Sir Dameron mistakes your indifference for, well, you don’t know actually. But it irritates you.

This whole situation irritates you. You wish you could go home, back to Poland where there are no wars, you wish you had never agreed to vacation in France.

Gwendoline must notice your discomfort, for she steps in between you and the royalty with a deep curtsy as to not be rude.

“The poor girl must be exhausted, may I show her her rooms?” She asks, and you could practically cry with gratitude at the suggestion.

“An excellent idea Gwendoline, yes why not. There will be plenty of time to talk at dinner, we’ve prepared a banquet in honor of your arrival.” Queen Leia says with a happy grin, jolly for an excuse to celebrate.

“That is most kind, thank you. I will be ready promptly.” You say, before following Gwendoline through the castle gates and across the grounds.

“Thank you.” You whisper as you catch up with her, hoping the wind does not carry your words backwards.

“My pleasure. They’ve been talking about you for days you know.” She informs, and you groan.

“Have they?” You ask, afraid of what sort of conversations they must have entertained themselves with.

“Yes, the Queen is particularly interested in how you get along with Sir Dameron.” She says, and your worst fear has come true. The expression on your face makes Gwendoline laugh brightly, and she shares a knowing glance when she says, “Well…he’s got nice teeth.”

Gwendoline leads you into the castle and up the stairs, and you pay little attention only except for the route to your room so that you may come and go as you please in the coming days. In no time at all, you have ascended up to the third floor, where Gwendoline stops in front of a grand wooden door.

“Here we are, your bedchambers.” She announces with great anticipation as she pushes down on the door handle and allows you to step inside.

It is dark and warm inside the bedchambers, a comforting difference from the bright windy day. The room is lit only by candles on iron stands, but there is enough light to feel perfectly cozy. The floors are made of stone as are the walls, but both are decorated with fine fabrics. A carpet stretches from underneath the bed, and there are beautifully woven tapestries hanging on the North and South facing walls of the room.

The bed is a large wooden thing, red linen curtains tied back from the canopy to create a familiar French draping effect. There are chairs near the fire pit, and a canopied basin for washing, which is such a luxury, particularly after the past few days, that it brings tears to your eyes.

“Who else has stayed here? In the past I mean.” You ask, wondering who had such lavish taste.

“No one, your highness. This room was previously used for storage, but I believe we did a decent job turning it into a bedroom.” Gwendoline responds, and you feel guilty suddenly – that all of this was put together just for you.

“It’s beautiful, absolutely beautiful.” You are in awe as you approach the bed, “I’ve never had a room that was mine and mine alone.”

This was true, although it was never something you had said aloud before. The homes in which you have stayed all were so old, all had held many secrets, had housed many lords and ladies alike. To have a room which is all your own is a rarity, one that you are ashamed to have gawked at.

“I am so very glad to hear that, you know I was thinking perhaps if you would be amendable to it, I could take you on a tour of the castle tomorrow, allow you to become acquainted with it.” Gwendoline offers, “Queen Leia wants Sir Dameron to accompany you, but I can make an excuse.”

“I would be forever in your debt if you would.” You take her hands in your own, and your lady’s maid smiles, goes to the trunk which you have brought with you.

“Consider it done. Now what would you like to wear to dinner?” She asks.

You decide to dress in the finest clothes you own – a deep red kirtle and a golden silk surcoat which has all heads turned towards you as you walk with Gwendoline through the castle hall. Your hair is brushed, re-braided, and pinned under a jewel encrusted veil. You are practically dripping with finery, wanting to not only make a good impression on the country’s most noble, but also to reclaim some sense of your own royalty.

The feast is a grand event, the hall practically filled to the brim with many a man and woman from all classes of society. The musicians are playing a lively tune, one that has you tapping your feet as you sit at the high table. You long to join the dancers in the middle of the floor, who laugh and cheer along with the flutes and lyres, the drums and dulcimers. 

“Does the princess find the spread pleasing?” Sir Dameron asks, and you find yourself in increasingly good spirits.

“Oh very much so, thank you! You can imagine after the trip I have had, a dinner like this is most impressive.” You smile, not wanting to be so unpleasant, especially not when you were about to have your first real meal in days.

This pleases the Queen, and she raises her pewter goblet to yours from where she sits at the high table, taps it against yours in a sign of good will and cheer.

“Excellent! I notice you brought very little with you, please know that anything is yours for the taking, both within the castle walls and in the village, if it would amuse you so.” She says, gesturing to the people below.

“I appreciate such an offer but I don’t think it wise to steal things from people in a land I am not from.” You say, trying your best to remain friendly.

It works, for the Queen lets out a hearty laugh, takes another sip of her wine.

“Oh it has been so long since we have had such a beautiful young lady within these castle walls, and one with a sense of humor on that!” She says loudly, and you are modest enough to evade the compliment.

“A cursory glance tells me that there are many beautiful young ladies in attendance this evening.” You point out.

“But only one of royal blood.” Queen Leia winks, and you concede.

“I suppose so.” You say, already preparing for this conversation to turn.

“I agree wholeheartedly with the fair Princess,” Sir Dameron says, twirling his butter knife around and around his fingers. “I have never once seen a young lady that I did not find beautiful.”

“And yet – he is still unmarried!” Queen Leia teases, and ah yes, there it is.

“Perhaps he is saving himself for love.” You say, and you swear, swear that for a moment, Sir Dameron’s face flushes red, swear that he glances over in the direction of a handsome nobleman who sits at the far end of the high table.

Interesting, you think as you smile into your pewter cup, very interesting.

Queen Leia does not catch the glance, nor does she find your comment amusing.

“Oh don’t be foolish, love.” She scoffs as she plucks lamb meat from its shank, “There is no place for love in marriage.”

“What a miserable wedding that must be then, when it does occur.” You can’t help but remark, offended that she holds romance in such little regard.

You have always thought that there be no better reason to marry than for love. Not courtly love, for that was filled with adultery and lies – no, true love, pure and simple. Good love, just love. Not an arrangement of money or power, and not the flowery poetics of dashing knights. No, your heart resided in the placement of your own hands, you would give it only to one who is truly deserving of it, which is why – 

“I must make it known to you, you are considered quite a rarity, being so old and so unmarried.” Queen Leia points out, and though it is a rude statement, for really you are not _so _old, you are aware that princesses do not typically make it past fifteen without a husband to their name.

“A rarity I am fortunate to hold, my sovereignty does not necessarily rely on a marital connection, something you are familiar with I believe, your Majesty.” You say, and that causes a slight murmur at the table, for you know she has been without a husband for many many years. You realize you have won this back and forth, and fortunately the musicians have struck up a tune that you cannot ignore. “Oh I love this song, would you please excuse me?”

You stand from the high table and practically jump down the steps on the side of the platform, not sparing a second glance to the Queen who is no doubt shaking her head at you.

You lose yourself in the dance, hands held with other maidens and women of gentry who weave and bob their way through open arms of friends and sisters alike. The musicians and their tabor pipes play a jaunty tune that has the spirits high, and there is laughter and dancing, from all throughout the hall. The warmth from both the spiced wine and the thrill of the activity fills you with a pleasant mood, forgetting entirely about the ever-charming Sir Dameron, or his pestering guardians.

Filled with such pleasantry, you begin to sing a simple tune that all the women know, one of longing for love, one of yearning for a courtly romance. The women which surround you sing the repeating words, and you cannot help but find it ironic, cannot help but find it satirical, for the Queen sings too, no doubt assuming you must mean her ward.

Yet you sing with a falsely cheerful smile, laughing as the wine flows from your tongue, as you and your newfound friends dance round and round, a healthy blush atop your cheeks:

_I find myself in times of darkness longing for a knight, sir knight, _

_When rain is dense and snow is cold I long for such a knight. _

_I find myself in times of stress hoping for a knight, sir knight,_

_To come and aid my aching heart if only for a night. _

At this the men cheer and jeer and whistle and wink, and you cannot help but laugh for surely they must know they would never qualify for such a position, nor any position they may hope to choose. The women exchange knowing glances, and you pretend to swoon and pretend to sigh, and all the while the music is only growing higher and higher. The noblemen stomp their feet in rhythm and time, they clap their hands as around and around you dance.

_I find myself yearning for love,_

_For I am a maiden, I am a maiden. _

_And though I have mind of mine own still I long, _

_For I am a maiden, I am a maiden._

You twirl and twirl around and around, growing ever more dizzy as the song comes to a close, and you close your eyes to allow yourself the feeling of being whisked away, as if you were on horseback headed back home, as if your home were not ravaged by English bows and swords.

_And once I find him I shall keep him safe and warm,_

_And I will hold him close and long _

_For I am a maiden, I am a maiden, _

_And he will be my knight! _

And just when the last word has been spoken, just as the applause and the cheers have erupted, all at once, the music comes to a startling halt.

The doors to the great hall have been flung open, and heads whip around, nobles clamor over one another to get some small sight at the interruption, hands already drawing their swords. Someone holds you close against their chest in a protective manner, but you push them away with a hand to their face, eager to see for yourself.

It is a knight, that much is clear. A knight who must be nearly seven heads tall, nearly two men wide. He is clad from head to toe in black armor, and this has everyone deathly still, for there was little good that could come from such a man, such an imposing figure swathed in glinting metal.

And imposing he is, standing taller than the tallest nobleman, taller than Sir Dameron, who valiantly rushes to the front of the crowd that has formed, breaks through the lines that have split to allow this man passage. You await with bated breath, as does everyone else, the only sound the heavy thud of his footsteps.

It is the Queen herself, who first speaks, who breaks the silence.

“Who dares interrupt this merry occasion?” She demands to know standing from her throne, all eyes flitting between her and this figure.

It is clear he is not there to slaughter them all, for if he had, he would not have made such an appearance. He is also alone, a detail you find particularly interesting. Men of such great stature seldom traveled alone, and they certainly did not barge into such a situation where they were to be grossly outnumbered.

The nobles all gasp with shock as the knight lifts gloved hands to remove his helmet, when the face of the man is revealed – long dark hair tumbles out of its hold in graceful waves, framing a face split in two by a scar that has marred and twisted his cheek. It is a rugged thing, which makes its end at the tip of his browbone and disappears into his collar to travel who knows how far down his neck. Even from your spot amongst the crowd you can see his face clearly. His eyes are hard and his brow is set, as is the downward turn of his plush lips, lips your eyes find themselves drawn to.

He is handsome, you decide, for what other word could be apt, so applicable than this?

You dare not move one inch, one step, for his jaw shifts, powerful muscles tensing as he prepares to speak, and you would rather have your hands whipped with reeds than ruin this moment. It seems as though the hall is in agreement, and everyone is on the edge of their seats, on the tips of their toes, waiting waiting waiting.

“My name is Sir Kylo Ren, Master of the Knights of Ren.” His voice carries loud and true, a baritone that settles right into your chest, slides between your ribs like a blade warmed from the coals, and no one knows what this means, as Ren is not a familiar name, not in this part of the country. He expands upon himself, and you almost do not hear the words, instead only focusing on the sound – the _sound _that comes from his lips, that wash over you so rich and deep. “Formerly Benjamin Organa, son of Leia and Han, son of Bail and Breha, son of Anakin and Padme.”

The man can barely get the last of his ancestors out before there is an uproar, before the noblemen and women overlap one another, voices stacked on top of gasps of shock, too much noise.

“But that’s – ” One man tries to do the math, tries to put two and two together.

“It can’t be!” Another exclaims, for they have reached their conclusion sooner than their friend.

“Benjamin died he – ” A woman shakes her head, disbelieving, as a drunkard stands atop a table, sword drawn and pointed in the knight’s direction.

“Imposter!” He shouts, and the crowd joins in, the mob chanting chanting chanting.

The Queen has none of it, slams her goblet down on the wooden table and barks out a,

“Silence!” To which the crowd obeys. Chastised, they simmer down, and you hold your breath, never once looking away from this man, especially not when Leia asks, “Why have you come, Sir Ren?”

She has a white knuckle grip on her fork and goblet, her frown set in a hard line. You wonder what has happened, for a mother to regard her son in such a way, for it is undeniable that that is who this is.

Sir Ren raises his sword and points it just above Leia’s head, to the crown.

It is clear, clear what he desires, clear he is laying his claim to the throne – by all rights it is his, much to the immediate dismay of those loyal to Sir Dameron, to he who is next in line.

Or rather, was.

“This is an outrage!” Dameron himself explodes in a fit of tantrum, slamming his own fist down against the table he has moved near.

Sir Ren simply regards him, and you regard Sir Ren, and the whole world seems to come to a stand-still.

“Two weeks.” The knight in black announces, and there it was, that rich voice once again. You hadn’t imagined it, the depth of it, hadn’t concocted it, and you hang onto those words as Dameron sneers, as he draws his own sword and lunges over the table.

He is exceptionally brash and you truly cannot help but roll your eyes, particularly as he comes to stand in front of you, some grand display at chivalry, at protection. You do not want it, nor did you ask for it, and there is a loose chuckle or two from deep within the mob, as you elbow your way back in front once more, not wanting to be shrouded behind him.

Sir Ren takes notice of this, and while he does not smile at your display of bravery, his eyes smolder at you in a way that has your knees growing weak.

“Why not take it now, if you are so confident that it is yours?” Dameron taunts, twirls his sword in his hand, assumes a fighting stance.

Sir Ren simply regards him, looks him up and down, and with the smallest shake of his head warns,

“Don’t tempt me.”

And it is this threat, that Sir Ren would happily lunge at Dameron’s throat, that calls for an outcry once more, for men and women alike to gasp and break into a loud chatter, everyone moving, everyone speaking, everyone launching straight to gossip.

Everyone, that it is, but you.

For you stare straight and true at the knight, at Sir Ren. You find you cannot take your eyes off of him, find you cannot look away, and why should you? He is so easy on the eyes, from the wide expanse of his chest to the dots that mark his face. You cannot tell if it is the wine, or the dancing, or the adrenaline that pumps through your veins, but you buck up the courage to shove your way through the rowdy dining hall, beg your pardon as you make your way towards him.

“Sir Ren!” You call out, and those in attendance of the feast watch you chase after him with wide eyes.

And it is a chase indeed, for Sir Ren is walking quickly away from you, and his legs are so very long. He is fast despite his armor, and you have to truly pick up the pace in order to catch him.

“Sir Ren, please wait!” You shout, and he stills.

You run across the grounds to where he was just about to mount his horse, a huge creature with hair as black as night. You are impressed, for horses did not grow this large, not at least any horse you have ever seen. Sir Ren is staring at you with wide eyes, and up close he is incredibly striking.

So much so, that you simply stare back at him for a moment, and you wonder if he will speak. You try and reclaim your breath from the sprint, but by the time you are of even breathing once more, he still has not so much as opened his mouth.

“I am in need of a bodyguard, for I am a lone maiden in a strange land. There are men after me, an army waging war on my Uncle. Please forgive my directness, but it would be an honor if you would assume the role of my protector.” You curtsy deeply, but still he does not speak.

When you rise, he is looking at you with bewilderment, and you worry you have offended him somehow.

“I can pay you handsomely – well! I can pay you well, for your efforts. And you may stay within the castle walls with me, a far cry better than being exposed to the elements, do you not think?” You blush, your slip of the tongue no doubt making you look foolish in his eyes.

When he still does not speak, you sigh, defeated. You did not know what had compelled you to ask this man, this stranger in the first place, and your heart sinks that you will now have to turn your attention to Sir Dameron, ask for his protection instead.

“She’s beautiful.” You say, in regards to the horse, who chuffs in surprise at being regarded at all.

You curtsy once more and turn to walk away, when you hear him take a step towards you.

“That color – ” He says, and his voice is deep as ever, deep as it was in the hall, but now ten times less loud, ten times more soft. “It suits you very well.”

You grin, and offer him your arm.

He only stares at it, remains frozen in place. You smile, wondering if he has ever been in the presence of a lady before, and tentatively, ever so carefully, you reach for his hand. It is balled into a tight fist, even as you wind your arm through his.

You glance up at him silently, giving him nothing but a smile, and though he does not smile back at you, he does walk with you back towards the castle.

You avoid the path of the great hall, for this is news you would not like to break so soon, not after such a declaration as Sir Ren’s. You care little about the impact this will have, instead grateful that such a strong and physically imposing man as this has agreed to watch over you, protect you.

He is even larger up close, as you have him pressed against your side, arms intertwined. He carries his helmet underneath his freed arm, and you cannot help but think how impressive it is that he walks with such ease in all of this plating and mail.


	2. Chapter 2

The walk is silent as you arrive at your bedchambers, and you unlock the door with the key Gwendoline gave you before you left for the feast. 

You release his arm, and turn the handle open.

“Please, come in?” You ask softly, for something about this man speaks to you, something tells you that he needs to be regarded with gentleness and care. A paradoxical wish, you think, but one you are more than happy to fulfill.

He shakes his head, throat bobbing. Ah, he is truly chivalrous then, you think with a smile, and simply nod.

“Will you sleep?” You ask, but your knight only shrugs, words still evading him. “I shall wish you only a good night then, rather than pleasant dreams.”

He is still looking at you when you close the door between your bodies. You wonder if he will truly stand there all night, truly be on the defense until the sun comes up – and then continue to do so forever more. You have no money to give him now, not at this moment, for your fleeing was one which did not afford the luxury of time to grab your purse.

You sleep with the sound of his voice in your head, and you find that despite it all, you have pleasant dreams.

In the morning, he is indeed there, and when you greet him he only silently regards you with a nod of his head. You could burst into happiness at the sight of him, for now you can see his face in the daytime, can see every mole and beauty mark than dapples his cheek, can see just how warm and brown his eyes are.

You offer your arm to him once more, and cannot contain a happy laugh when he accepts it gracefully, fist still balled in his leather glove as it rests underneath your hand. You will have to work on that, you decide, him not being so tense.

But then again, tension is a good thing for a guard to have, is it not?

Sir Ren opens the door to the great hall when you descend the stairs together, allows you to enter first and follows shortly after. It is just the royal family and the servants which dine today, all the other attendees of the feast long gone and enjoying a meal in their own home. You are glad for the minimal audience, for when Sir Ren’s presence is known, you are both met with gasps of shock.

Sir Dameron, in his courageous fashion, leaps over the high table and rolls to a standing position, sword drawn dramatically.

“My fair princess! Look out, there is a monster behind you.” He bares his teeth at Sir Ren, but neither of you are nonplussed.

“Where? Oh, Sir Ren? If he be a monster he is not one to me, it would be rather counterproductive for I have hired him as my guard.” You say with ease, causing the royal family to go deathly still.

“You have done _what?” _Bishop Luke asks, as Sir Ren follows you up the steps to the high table, stands behind you without a word.

“Found a bodyguard. You were correct Sir Dameron, finding a capable man was more than easy.” You answer, speaking in the direction of the silver knight whose sword has gone limp at his side in confusion and dismay.

“You cannot be serious, this is – this is treason!” Dameron stutters and stammers, and you laugh without regard to anyone or anything as you bite into an apple.

“Oh no it is not, I did not hire him to murder you – unless you aim to harm me.” You say, making the man go bright red.

“I would never.” He announces, tousles his hair.

“Glad that’s settled then.” You reply evenly, offering Sir Ren an apple from the pile.

He takes it gratefully, bites into it. You get a glimpse of his teeth, they are pearly white but crooked in all manner of direction, and you give him an encouraging smile, when he catches you looking, for you find those teeth endearing.

“Lady (Y/N) you must know the implications of this decision.” The Queen says lowly, and you have half a mind to demand what her problem with her son is.

“And what might those be?” You challenge, growing weary of this, of her.

“You have allowed him entry into the castle!” She hisses, face turning red with anger at your feigned ignorance, and that is where you snap.

“I believe Sir Ren to be a man of his word. He said two weeks, and in two weeks you should worry. For now, I have already sent word to my father and he will no doubt respond with a contracted payment. It is finished, you cannot change my mind.” You say, angry and annoyed, good mood of the morning ruined.

“I will not permit it.” Queen Leia announces, stands up in rage.

“Then I shall tell my father you have rejected me from your home and forced me to live out in the wilderness, and when he is finished fighting the war in France, he will surely set his eyes on you.” You are just as fiery, and when you stand it is with defiance.

“I swear upon my brother’s life – ” Queen Leia says lowly.

“Hey.” Bishop Luke interrupts to complain.

“That if anything happens to my ward while this, this _monster_ is here, he will be executed without trial.” Queen Leia says, and you don’t know why but you grow increasingly defensive over this man, this utter stranger.

“Then you would do to keep a close eye on him.” You say, stepping dangerously close to her, invading her personal space before grabbing a loaf of bread and many wedges of cheese from the table and announcing, “I believe I will have my breakfast out of doors today.”

The entire hall watches as you storm out, as Sir Ren follows closely behind, as you fling the doors open and slam them shut, trying your best not to let your rage show as you put distance between yourself and the castle.

It is beautiful out, the weather pleasant and mild, not nearly as windy as it was yesterday. Your veil does flutter in the breeze, hair kept securely beneath it, even though you long to let it free.

Sir Ren is silent beside you, although he does offer you his arm this time, and you grin up at him as you accept it.

“That went well, don’t you think?” You ask, not expecting an answer. “You must tell me if I annoy you with my conversation, the last thing I would want is to drive you away.”

He only shakes his head, and you take that as a good sign. You didn’t anticipate him being this shy, this reserved. You hum a tune for a little while as you walk the grounds, looking for a nice place to set down and finish your breakfast.

“You caused quite the stir at the table!” A familiar voice sounds, and you turn to see your lady’s maid shaking her head with awe.

“Good morning Gwendoline, I presume you’ve heard the news then?” You tease, for of course she had heard.

“Even the servants are talking, what a bold move.” Gwendoline chuckles, and it feels good to laugh with her, feels good to have a friend, even one made so new, and under such stressful circumstances.

“Let’s give them something more to discuss then, hm?” You ask, glancing up at your bodyguard who’s arm is still looped within your own, something that does not go unnoticed by Gwendoline, “Sir Ren will be accompanying us on our tour of the castle.” 

The castle is much larger than you anticipated, and it takes all day for you to go through it.

Gwendoline is a godsend, she takes you through every single floor, all three of them, and then through to the basement and up to the roof. It is truly a grand fortress, with power displayed at every opportunity. There are castle guards and military means practically at every door on the first floor, who guard the storerooms and the throne room and the great hall all alike.

You wonder if anyone has been fired, for surely such a guard would not have let Sir Ren burst through into the feast, not without a fight anyway. You wonder if they had, and Sir Ren had simply killed them. But no, you decide, for there would have been blood on his armor last night, and you had seen none.

The second floor is where the servants life, and you are introduced to them all. From the stableboys to the laundrymaids, you greet them one by one. You are surprised to learn you’re the first noble or royal to do such a thing, for you consider it only common decency to acquaint yourself with the people who serve you.

Not that these people serve _you, _nor would they, if you got your way and Queen Leia did not get hers.

Between the tour and the greeting of all the servants, by the time you are finished with the tour, the sun is down. The three of you steal a bite to eat or two from the storerooms, nothing extravagant, just humble meat and bread, a mug or two of water from the well.

Gwendoline bids you a goodnight once the food has been finished, leaving you and your guard by yourselves.

Sir Ren accompanies you without a word up to your bedchambers, opens your door for you and you step inside. 

“Will you remain outside of my door this evening?” You ask, wondering if you can convince him to come in this time, but he gives you a look that says you cannot. “Good night then, Sir Ren.”

You smile at him and once again he does not smile back – you wonder what it will take for such an expression to grace his face, for surely he would be so much more handsome if he were to smile. You endeavor to see it before the two weeks time is up, a challenge you are happy to accept.

* * *

The next morning you find him alert and at attention at your door, once Gwnedoline has come in and dressed you for the day. You are wearing your red kirtle, it has been washed freshly and you hope that it pleases the knight.

“You truly did not sleep, did you?” You ask in lieu of a formal greeting, in awe of the way he seemingly needs no rest. “I was hoping to go into the village today, to bring alms to the poor. Will you accompany me?”

He nods, and you happily make your way down the hall to the stables where you and Sir Ren’s horses are safe and warm. It is here that you can see just how magnificent his steed is, how large. Her mane is cropped and braided tightly to her neck, but her eyelashes are long and she huffs happily to see her master.

Agnes is equally pleased to see you, though she is far more proportional to what you consider a normal sized horse. It would seem as though the two horses get along very well, for they can choose wherever they would like to stand, and yet they have chosen to stand next to one another as the stableboy prepares their saddles.

You watch with great interest as Sir Ren holds a hand out to his horse’s mouth, some oats poured into his palm from a sack tucked under his arm. The great beast eats it up happily, and Agnes sees this and demands some as well. You are more than happy to give them to her, your hand accidentally brushing against your knight’s when you reach into the sack he holds.

“You know I must admit, when you first arrived at the great hall the other night it was the first time that I thought this place might hold any interest to me. You and I are alike, you see, we both are alone in this land, but now I think we might be alone together, and wouldn’t that be lovely? To have a friend in one another?” You ask as he offers you a hand to climb aboard your horse, foregoing all propriety and pretending that side saddle does not exist.

You watch as Sir Ren hoists himself up onto his own horse, and you laugh because you must look up at him, even from here, for even his horse is taller than yours. He does not reply as you lead the horses out of the stable, careful to watch your head on the lip of the door.

You refrain from any conversation until your horses have lead you down and away from the castle walls, where you then look to him with some semblance of playful secrecy.

“I suppose you do not _do_ friends, nor was that your intention for coming here. Nonetheless, I do thank you for agreeing to stay with me. Now that we are far enough from the castle I should tell you that it is my hope you may find the opportunity to familiarize yourself with the workings of the kingdom.” You wink, and consider it a victory when Sir Ren raises his eyes in shock.

So shy indeed, you think, with a light blush.

“Tomorrow I thought it might be a nice idea for you to train, if that is something you so desire. I’m sure someone with your…physique requires rigorous training, and I feel poorly for having kept you away from it. I don’t want you to think that just because you are my guard, that you must wait on me hand and foot – I am quite capable.” You assure him.

It is then that a woman darts out from a small farmhouse that marks the edge of the village. You and Sir Ren halt your horses, and the woman curtseys deeply. 

“Lady (Y/N)! It is an honor.” She greets you, breathless.

“Pray tell what is your name?” You ask kindly, flattered by her excitement.

“Rose, your highness, I am Rose.” She curtseys again, a bright flush to her cheeks when she asks, “What brings you to the village?”

“Sir Ren and I have come to deliver food for the hungry, from the feast held in my honor.” You gesture to your knight, and Rose practically trips over herself in embarrassment for forgetting to greet him as well.

“Oh, thank you my Lord and Lady! I shall bring it to them at once.” She says, curtseying deeply once more.

You frown.

“Actually, it would be a privilege if I may do so myself.” You explain, to which her eyes widen nearly comically. “Please, can you point me in the appropriate direction?”

“You are most kind, yes, right this way.” She says, gesturing for you to follow her down a small trodden path through the village.

It is quaint, mostly farmland for a great long while, before breaking into something more civilized. There were small houses and grand buildings, a church of course, a marketplace. People coming and going as they pleased, off to conduct business or tend to the chores of the day. Children ran around in the street, some chased by their fathers, other running loose of their own accord.

“Does the Queen not deliver her alms?” You ask as it becomes clear here is where your leftover food was needed the most.

Both you and Sir Ren get down from your horses, and with discretion, begin to hang out bundles of bread, meat, cheese, and fruit to women and children, men old and young alike. They are grateful for it, but you refuse any thanks.

“Oh no, your highness. No she is far too busy with running things at the castle, she has entrusted me to do such tasks.” Rose shakes her head, “It is why I was prepared to take them for you, you see.”

This disappoints you greatly, and you cannot repress an angered sigh. Not when a small boy with round blue eyes and a dirt smudged face wraps his arms around your middle in a hug.

“I don’t think there is ever such thing as too busy to meet with those less fortunate than you, what say you, Sir Ren?” You ask when the boy runs away, holding the crust of bread above his head like it is some great prize he has won, immediately breaking it into pieces to share it with his friends.

Sir Ren watches the child, and you watch Sir Ren, watch as he approaches the children. At first they are fearful of him, for he is nearly four times their height, but then he crouches down and offers some meat and wrapped fish, and they approach him with ease.

“He doesn’t speak much, does he?” Rose asks you, and you find you cannot look away from him, especially when the young boys grab onto his arms as he stands tall, is strong enough to hold them all up as the children dangle from his armor, laughing and laughing as if this is the most fun they have ever had.

“He doesn’t have to, if he doesn’t wish.” You say softly, blushing when he catches you staring, when you swear you can see a blush of his own creeping across his cheeks.

You turn away, walk with Rose as you deliver more meals from the feast, knowing without a doubt that Sir Ren would soon be behind.

“The village has heard of your scandal, they are up in arms.” Rose says quietly, and you nod.

“Well let us hope we don’t have a revolt on our hands, that would very much dampen my good mood – and the mood of Sir Ren, I’m sure.” You say, making Rose chuckle.

“You jest but I would not put it past them!” She replies seriously, “The Queen’s loyalists are a very rebellious bunch.”

* * *

The next morning, Sir Ren is at your door, as alert as ever. He also smells heavenly, like he is freshly washed, and even his hair is slightly damp. You wonder when he had the time to bath, and where even. But there he is, and he bows in a greeting to you, a greeting which makes you smile.

Just for fun, you curtsey to him in the hopes he might smile back at you, but he does not. Still, there is warmth in his eyes and you find that is just as acceptable – for the moment.

“Are you prepared to train today? I have brought my needle and thread, I should hope to embroider something while you spend the day completing your regiment.” You say, and this intrigues him, he perks up slightly and tries to steal a peek at the piece of fabric you have secured inside a very small hoop.

“Oh no you mustn’t look! It is a surprise.” You laugh, and he scowls, only making you more charmed.

You cannot show him, for it is a gift you hope to give him, a favor you hope he will wear when he engages in the tournament, the duel against Sir Dameron.

You walk arm in arm down the hall as per usual, down the stairs and onto the castle grounds, until he finds a spot he likes best.

“Please, do as you must, don’t mind me one bit, I shall just sit here without a word – pretend I am not here.” You say when he has chosen one such place, a large stretch of field with green grass that swayed in the breeze.

You sit in the grass, careful of any dirt that might stain your surcoat, and set to work on your embroidery. You had chosen a long strip of ribbon, one that you hoped would be long enough to wrap around his upper arm, for his biceps looked so large. You had been secretly trying to measure how wide his muscles might be with each morning as you hooked your arm in his, and each and every time, you came away more and more impressed.

An impression which was only growing, when you saw just what this training regiment entailed. Even back home you paid no attention to the knights which littered your lawn, so you really had no idea what it might have even been, but you certainly did not expect this, did not expect the sparks which flew off of a stone wall as Sir Ren climbed his way up it.

He has found two walls close enough together, and in full armor he wedges himself between them, braces his hands and feet and, much like a spider would, climbs the wall. Once at the top, he jumps down and rolls upright with grace, drawing the attention of many a lord and lady alike.

After five times climbing the wall, he whistles for his horse, which comes running and running at high speed from the stables. You stop your embroidery work for a moment, fearful that the horse is going to run him down, when he simply begins running alongside her, grabs a hold of the saddle horn and swings himself up onto the horse.

Cheers erupt behind you, and you realize he had gathered a small crowd, mostly of women who have come to stand or sit near you to admire him.

You feel a sense of both pride and jealousy, as you cheer along. He is _your_ guard after-all.

Sir Ren repeats this motion again and again, jumping down from his horse and then back onto her, and you try your very best not to laugh, for the poor beast looks thoroughly annoyed with him! You wonder just how heavy that armor is, even for so large a horse there are limits.

You attempt to embroider once more when he dismounts for the final time, choosing now to somersault round and round the grass in a fashion that you think looks altogether very silly, but is still a great feat, one which you are sure you could not complete covered in so much metal.

The pattern you have chosen is that of your initials, a decorative monogram in colors you think would suit him – black and red. You are nearly half-way finished with the letter of your first name, when he begins the stone throw.

If the wall climb and the horse vaulting were impressive, this was downright awe-inspiring. You did not know how he did it, how he had the strength, but you watch with a dropped jaw as he lifts a large rock from the earth, one you were sure had been placed there by the gods of old themselves, lifts it high above his head.

When he tosses it, the earth shakes as it lands, shakes enough that you drop your needle from the force of it.

You are openly gawking at him now, taking in the sight of him, of his form. You wish you could see what was held beneath his armor, particularly how his muscles might strain from the weight of the stone as he fetches it once more, tosses it high into the air and lets it land once more.

You are shocked, that a man could possess such strength – absolutely floored. You strain to look at his thighs, at his shoulders, but they are a mystery to you, one that makes you hot. Oh you are hot all over, from the way he lifts the stone with ease, from the way he so nonchalantly chucks it across the field.

Your breathing quickens and you can feel your face flushing, can feel a low and delicious throb between your legs when you hear the grunt of his labor, the effort he puts behind the third, fourth, fifth throw. You lick the sweat off of your upper lip, and have to adjust your skirt so that you might press your legs together.

When he bends over to pick it up again, and you see the firm expanse of his ass through his trousers where his chainmail has ridden up, you cannot stop a groan from escaping from your lips. Some of the ladies do the same, but it is your groan that distracts him – and he drops the heavy rock, immediately wincing and stumbling backwards so that it may not crush his foot.

You are up in an instant, embroidery tossed aside as the women gasp in fear.

“Sir Ren!” You shout, running running running towards him, your skirt gathered up in your hands, heart thudding wildly. You feel awful, for this is your fault, as he inspects his hand. “Are you alright?”

You pry his fist open and see a gash through the leather of his gloves, and you cup a hand over your mouth in fear for him.

“Lady (Y/N), it’s fine, tis but a scratch – ” he tries to assure you, shocking you further with his speech, his voice even and calm, a soothing baritone.

You waste no time in reaching down beneath your kirtle to your linen smock, tear a strip right from the hem, and wind it around his hand.

“I will not stand by and watch you bleed.” You say at once, heart hammering in your chest.

You quickly tie the linen strip around his hand, for it is too difficult to take off his glove, not when the top of his hand is protected by chainmail and plate. You press your fingers to the wound, applying an even pressure and you will the bleeding to stop.

“You have ruined your dress.” He says, and you look up at him, find his face leaning down so so close to yours.

“If it has helped you, then it is not ruined.” You whisper, searching his eyes. In the daylight like this, they are the most beautiful liquid brown, like chocolate only warmer. He is so close to you, and he licks his lips, prominent adam’s apple bobbing up and down, his own breathing hard. You do not know if it is from his workout or your presence, but it does not matter. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” He says, and your eyes flutter closed at the sound of his voice, your hands clasp over his in an affectionate and caring gesture. He brings his other hand to your cheek, “I have endured much worse than this.”

“Just because you have endured worse does not mean this cannot still hurt.” You say, and he blinks, rapidly.

“Thank you.” He replies, and the words sound strange coming from his lips, as if he has not said them before, or at least for a long time.

You wonder if, before you, there had been anyone to tend to his wounds, no matter how great or small.

“Can you go on like this?” You ask, not wanting to let go of his hand, so you don’t. He notices, and you think, you think think think you see the barest hint of a smile, but it is gone before it has even arrived.

So close, you think to yourself, as you let yourself grin, telling him that you know, you saw it, even if he hadn’t wanted you to. He looks up at the crowd which is watching them both, gossiping between one another, and he looks back at you.

“Yes, I was hoping to exercise Sam, if you would come riding with me.” He asks.

Sam! What a lovely name for a horse, you think, as you nod, as he pulls you by the hand to his horse who looks as if she’s about to kick him in the gut for being so heavy. He hoists you up onto her saddle, and jumps up onto her as well, behind you, arms winding around your middle.

He snaps the reigns and off Sam rides, galloping and galloping down the field, through the castle gates and into the woods beyond.

It is freeing, to go so fast! To fly through the earth like there be no restrictions, no war miles and miles away. Your veil whips around from the speed of Sam’s hooves, and carefully you remove it so it does not rip from your head, does not accidentally smack Sir Ren in the face. With your hair freed you feel as though all the weight of the world has left your shoulders, and you whoop and laugh as you duck beneath branches and brace yourself as Sam jumps over dips and gaps in the earth.

Sir Ren is a solid, sturdy wall behind you, your back pulled against his chest as he practically encases your body. His chin rests on your shoulder, and though you know it is because that is the only place where he can really see, it still feels intimate in the most wonderous of ways.

You travel over the farmlands and through the woods, past a clearing and all the way down to the shoreline, where waves crash against craggy cliffs, and the misty spray of the ocean catches in rainbows overhead. 

But like all good things, this does not last, and soon the day grows long, and your stomachs grow hungry. You wish you had brought food for a picnic, but alas, lunch must be had, and that meant returning to the castle. No one bothers you this time when you enter the great hall, for lunch has already been served, and the royal family is nowhere in sight. Still the servants bring you food, and you enjoy your meal in companionable silence.

When the day has finished and Sir Ren accompanies you to your room, you are glad to see that someone, likely Gwendoline, has found your embroidery and has placed it on your bed. You regard Sir Ren, regard the way that he is standing ever closer to you with your arm in his, and you hope – dare to hope, that perhaps this will be the night you lure him into your bedchambers.

“I have never had such fun in all my life!” You exclaim, a sudden rush of adrenaline flooding through you.

Sir Ren seems to know, knows what you’re playing at, and he only opens your door for you.

“Good night, Lady (Y/N).” He says, his tone teasing and playful in a way that has your hopes so so so high.

“Won’t you come in?” You ask, pout, plead, trying to do your worst.

“You know I cannot.” He shakes his head, and you let out a dramatic sigh.

“But I am asking so nicely.” You say, to which he simply raises a brow, unamused. This is a lie of course, you can tell he is amused, there is just something preventing him from expressing it so. “Will you be here? When I wake up?” You whisper, hoping to not have pushed too far.

“Of course.” He says with a nod, as he de-tangles his arm from yours with a simple, “Sleep well.”


	3. Chapter 3

He closes the door and closes himself off to you, and you cannot help but be a little disappointed. Did he perhaps find you unattractive? No, not with the way his gaze lingered upon you so. Was it your arrangement, a guard and the object of his protection? Was it because you were to pay him? You didn’t want him to think you were paying for his affections, for that certainly was not the case.

But, you hoped…hoped that affections were indeed there.

You undress carefully, slowly, remembering the events of the day, of the past few days. How he was so strong, so clearly physically powerful. That low throb began once more between your legs, and you figure that no one is around, no one will know if you indulge yourself some pleasure – as long as you keep quiet, as long as you do not disturb Sir Ren.

He is just outside your door, and this thrills you, thrills you that he could come in at any moment, should he choose. The invitation is there, you have given it so many times now, have meant it each time you gave it. The door is unlocked, it would be so easy for him to come inside.

You let your mind wander as your feet carry you to your bed, as you climb underneath your covers and stick your fingers in your mouth, wet them generously with saliva, though you know you won’t be needing it, for your pussy is already so slick, so wet for Sir Ren.

You concoct a fantasy, that it is his fingers touching you, that he accepts your invitation and removes all his armor, all his layers, and climbs atop you, touches and touches and touches you. You roll over onto your stomach so that your face might be pushed into your pillow, sounds muffled.

In the fantasy, he has pulled you onto your hands and knees, has your ass propped up as he explores your body from behind. Your hips push and pull against your hand and you stroke yourself, short nails dragging just so on the walls of your cunt, sending little ripples of pleasure through your spine.

It makes you hazy, dizzy, tingly, the thought that perhaps he would kiss your back, between your shoulder blades, would grasp your hair in one of his large hands, would use it as though it were reigns. You moan into your pillow at the thought of riding him, of straddling his thighs and rolling your hips above his as his cock splits you in two – for surely it must be proportional to the rest of him, and the rest of him is so very large.

When you come, it is as though all of the tension from the past few days has melted away, pouring out of you and coating your fingers. You relish the glow for a long while, until it lulls, and you drift off to sleep with a smile on your face.

* * *

The next morning, you awake to the sound of softly chirping birds, the free larks and farm roosters deciding that it was time to once again greet the day, rousing most everyone along with them. You are giddy, wake up with something of a smile on your face, for you know that when you open the door to your bedchambers there will be your guard, and you have many a question for him, many a story to tell him. You have grown accustomed to this, to these morning conversations, and even though he is of few words himself, there is a warmth that he provides when he is near that you decide you cannot go without.

Through a back passage in the room comes your lady in waiting, and your newfound friend, Gwendoline.

“You look like you have slept well my lady.” She greets you with a bow, and you throw the sheets off of your body, clutch a pillow to your chest.

“I had the most wonderful of dreams, and am very much looking forward to the day – did you have a pleasant evening?” You ask, and Gwendoline smiles.

“I did, you are most kind to ask. May I help you dress?” She asks, and you are grateful that she is not in the mood to talk today. Your longing for conversation belongs with Sir Ren, no matter how interesting Gwendoline may be.

“Please.” You nod, as you rise from your bed clad only in your loose linen smock.

Your bare feet are warmed by the handwoven carpet that covers the stone flooring of your bedchambers. Gwendoline rummages through your trunk and retrieves a pair of woolen hose, a natural, unbleached color that matched the smock. She hands them to you and you slide them up your legs, securing them just below the knee with garters of braided tape. This pair are not so thick, and you stretch your legs out to admire the shape of your calves, wondering if perhaps Sir Ren wore hose beneath his armor.

“Which pair of shoes would you like today, my lady?” She asks, and while you normally could not care less, you chose carefully this morning.

“I think the brown. I aim to wear my red kirtle and I feel they would pair nicely, don’t you think?” You ask, and Gwendoline concurs as she fetches the leather slippers, positions them on your feet and closes the golden buckle around your ankle.

“A wise choice indeed.” She agrees, and you wonder if she’s only agreeing because to do so otherwise might get her in trouble. Nevertheless, she removes the red kirtle from the trunk where it had been neatly folded.

Sir Ren has complimented this kirtle, you think warmly. Through his compliment, it was quickly becoming your most favorite, and you hold your arms above your head so that Gwendoline might slip the garment over your frame.

This particular one was made from red silk, with a beautifully embroidered brocade decorating the neckline and cuffs. The embroidery was done with red and pink threads of spun silk, and designed in a floral pattern that you felt appropriate for the summertime.

Gwendoline clasps the neckline shut with a gold and jewel encrusted brooch, and was about to slide the highly ornate and decorative surcoat over your head when you shake your head.

“No, I should like to have a casual day, if I might.” You say as you walk towards the spotted mirror.

It was simply too hot for all the regalia of the surcoat and cloak, this was summer after-all, you were no longer living in the eternal permafrost of France in the wintertime. You regard yourself in the mirror, smooth the silk over your curves and you reach for a golden braided belt to tighten the kirtle around your wait, allowing for some definition.

“Her Majesty would not be pleased, if you were not in proper dress.” Gwendoline comes to stand behind you, and through the reflection you see her pale blonde eyebrow raised.

“I am covered sufficiently, am I not?” You ask, stubborn as ever.

“I suppose you are.” Gwendoline says in defeat, not willing to push the issue. So what if the Queen would be displeased? You were not here to befriend her. “Where is that hulking beast you’ve somehow tamed?” Gwendoline asks, throwing you for a moment.

You turn to find her seated in one of the large wooden chairs near your bed, already pulling out a pair of stockings to darn.

“What, you don’t mean Sir Ren.” You frown, and Gwendoline gestures towards your door.

“I do, I did not see him as I passed by your door, is he not supposed to stand watch all evening?” She asks, and suddenly your hopes for a morning conversation are dashed, replaced with the icy drip of dread.

“Gwendoline would you please excuse me – I fear something has happened to him, I must look for him.” You say at once, quickly yanking a comb through your hair that you leave loose, for there is no time to braid and pin it now, not when your guard has gone missing.

Gwendoline does not seem terribly concerned.

“I highly doubt anything could have happened to such a brute, but do as you must.” She sighs.

You do not register her comment until you are already on the other side of the room, hand on the door handle. You hesitate, but ultimately cannot hold your tongue, not when defensiveness strikes up within you.

“He is _not_ a brute.” You say firmly.

You leave Gwendoline in your bedchambers as you unlock your door, and she is correct when she says the man is nowhere to be seen. Panic spikes your chest for a moment, and your feet begin to carry you through the hall, down the stone steps of the castle stairwell, and out a back door which leads to the grounds.

The sky is still pink with the early hour, only just enough light to see by, enough to search for any sign of Sir Ren. You do not see your guard but you do see his steed, and you approach her calmly, not wanting to spook the giant horse.

Tentatively, you reach out a hand and place it on her nose, and she nudges your hand with something that you hope is affection, allowing you to pet the short hairs there.

“Do you know where he’s gone?” You ask, and she only whinnies softly, tosses her head.

You know reasonably that she can’t understand you, that her shaking her head is not her saying no, not really, but you feel disappointed nonetheless. There is a splashing sound suddenly, one that comes from just beyond the line of the trees. That must be him, you think, for no one else would be here so early, certainly not fishing.

Without a second thought you are crossing the expanse of the castle grounds, the distance not so great as to be a deterrent, and you mind your step as you climb through bushes and past large mossy stones, to where the splashing only grows louder, and the trickling of a brook becomes ever present.

Carefully you hide yourself behind the trunk of a large tree and you must cover your mouth so that he may not hear your gasp, for Sir Ren is bathing in the brook – completely in the nude.

You have never seen your knight without his armor before.

Ever.

The most you have been so lucky to feast your eyes upon has only been his face, his hands ever elusive beneath leather gloves, the rest of him shrouded in mystery. Yet here he is now, the brook just barely covering his hips, and your mouth waters, for he is _so_ much more impressive than you thought possible. You had been under the false pretense that it was his armor which made him so broad – and now you know this is not the case, that the armor does nothing to exaggerate his figure.

He stands with his back to you, as he scoops water into his cupped palms and douses his head with it. His wet hair is impossibly dark, and you are somehow close enough to catch the enticing sight of the water cascading down his body in rivulets as he scoops more and more. The water runs off in clear bubbles, foam that collects atop the water, and you recognize that as soap. You wonder what soap he uses.

Your intrigue only grows further when you see him procure the bar of soap from an anchored stone which he has placed it on, watch as he uses it to scrub his skin, generating more and more of the froth. But soon your interest in the soap dissipates as you fixate on a much more tantalizing sight – the extremely well defined muscles of his back and shoulders.

You cannot see his front, but his back flexes and the pink skin of scar tissue stretches with the movement. There are many, too many, and you frown when you realize the pain he has endured to earn them. One is large and cuts his back nearly in half, another wraps around his shoulder, presumably this scar is connected to the one on his face, but you cannot be sure.

Something in you shouts loudly to turn around and retreat back to the castle, that this is unfair, improper. You have little shame on a typical occasion, but this was spying, was unwarranted.

A larger part of you is bold, and you decide that it cannot be spying if you make yourself known, so with a thudding chest you step from around the tree trunk, the sound of your shoes snapping twigs underneath your foot more than enough to alert Sir Ren of your presence.

He whips around at once, somehow has a dagger in his hand, and your breath catches, for now that he is facing you, you are exposed to the sight of his sculpted chest, the strong thickness of his middle. Your eyes cannot help but travel downwards, where there is a thatch of black hair that disappears beneath the water.

“Lady (Y/N)!” Sir Ren reacts quickly upon seeing you, upon recognizing you. He dunks himself beneath the water, submerges himself fully, so that only his head and shoulders stick out. He flushes bright red, and averts his gaze, as though he were the one who has stumbled across you.

“Call me (Y/N).” You say, and he just gulps.

“Forgive me, I did not think you would wake this early – what are you doing?” He asks, cutting himself off abruptly as he takes notice of you undoing your golden belt, slipping out of your shoes.

“Is it not obvious? I am joining you.” You ask with a smile, unclasping your brooch and pulling the kirtle over your shoulders and off of your body, folding it atop of your jewelry so that the pieces may be hidden.

Sir Ren grows more and more alarmed, particularly when you undo the tape that holds up your hose, making something of a show of rolling the wool down down down your leg, folding those carefully as well.

“You can’t.” He protests, voice deep and soft, shy. “It’s cold.” He says, although you doubt that.

“I never minded the cold much.” You give a cheeky wink, “Besides, I very much fancy a swim.”

You keep your smock on, a sham of an attempt at modesty as you wade into the water. The closer and closer you get to him, the further he backs away, until he cannot back away any further, his back hitting the bank across the narrow brook.

“You smell marvelous, pray tell what do you use?” You ask when you crowd up against him, your smock soaked through entirely.

You hope he notices, hope he catches a glimpse of your body through the fabric, for the unbleached linen has a habit of going transparent, of clinging to your figure when it is wet. You hope he is looking, hope that he is appreciative of your form, for what other reason could there be for him to lick his lips just so?

“Lemon juice and snake oil.” He says, voice barely above a whisper, hoarse, like he hasn’t prepared to use it.

You decide to tease him for a moment or two, and you float on your back, laying yourself horizontally atop the water so that he might see all of you, might feel the tendrils of your hair brush against his waist as the gentle current ebbs and flows.

“I thought I recognized the lemon, but I must admit I don’t know how one would procure oil from a snake. I imagine it’s a very dangerous endeavor, but knowing you, I’m sure it is one that you handle with grace. I’m very impressed to find you using soap – not to say that I thought you were dirty! It’s just many men I’ve encountered have no comprehension of cleanliness. I suspect it’s why illness has begun to creep up across the country.” You resume a standing position, remembering his injury.

“How is your hand?” You ask, only to find Sir Ren staring at you.

Your hair, now sopping wet has splayed across your shoulders and followed the swell of your breasts, where Sir Ren is desperately trying to avoid looking. You do him no favors, and take a deep inhale, and he is entranced by the way your ribcage expands. You do it again, and he tears his gaze away, having completely missed your question.

“What?” He asks, voice thick, and you can’t help but feel the smallest bit victorious.

Still, your concern is genuine, the torn strip missing from your smock brushes against your calf under the water, a testament to that.

“Your hand, from yesterday? I worry about it, your wound.” You say, and the gears turn in Sir Ren’s head, until he finally understands.

“It’s all healed, here,” He offers you his hand palm side up, with a soft, “See?”

It is an invitation, this you know, to hold his hand. You do not waste a moment to slide your palms underneath his knuckles, to push his hand up out of the water so that you might have a better look. Indeed the cut is healed, now no more than a faint line. Relief floods you, and even once you have inspected his wound, you do not let him go.

“I have never seen your hands before.” You say quietly, sliding one of your palms to smooth over his, sandwiching his great big hand in between yours, clasping yours around it. You bring the hand up to your lips and in the most gentle press of affection you can muster, bestow a kiss to his fingertips. He is still, so still, and you cannot tell if you are afraid of him bolting, or if it is he who is afraid of scaring you. “In fact, I cannot help but feel as though I have never seen _you _before.”

And Sir Ren withdraws his hand from your loose grasp with that, rough calloused skin slipping away from yours as he steps away from you with great pain in his face.

“I am sorry you are seeing me now.” He admits, a deep scowl pinching his brow.

You follow after him, not wanting to be so far, not wanting to be far at all, and the water sloshes around you as you try to understand his meaning.

“What on Earth makes you say such a thing? Do you think I find you repulsive?” You ask, wondering what you had said, what you had done, but he only shakes his head and huffs to himself, trying to find the words.

“Why should you not?” He settles on, not daring to look at you. You can see the clenching of his jaw, and wish for nothing more than to soothe him, particularly when he grits out, “I have been made aware…that my features are less than pleasant to look at.”

And anger flares up inside your stomach then, a belly full of flame which you want to spit like dragonfire. You cup his cheek in your own hand, the cheek with the scar to show that you are not one who holds those same opinions.

“Whoever has poisoned you with these falsehoods should be hanged for this crime they have committed against your confidence.” You condemn them with every fiber of your being, for who could say such a thing, such a lie?

This close his features appear to you as nothing other than handsome, captivatingly beautiful. His hair, although hanging flat from being sopping wet is luscious and glossy, no doubt from the oils he uses. His ears, though they may stick out, are perfectly symmetrical and you find you adore them, now that you see them for the first time, now that they are not hidden behind his raven locks. His nose is proud and strong, his eyes are warm and kind. He is kissed by the stars, for constellations have been sprinkled across his skin, from the spots that pepper his face to the dusting atop his shoulders and chest.

“It would not do to hang the Queen.” He says softly, so soft that you nearly miss it. But you do catch it, and the anger morphs into misery on his behalf, as your heart breaks for him.

“Sir Ren.” You whisper, and damn but you could cry, what a horrible thing for a mother to say, how cruel.

You realize then, just how close you are to one another, wading there in the brook. You realize you could kiss him – you _want _to kiss him. And it seems as though, for just a moment, he wants to kiss you too, if the way he lets his eyes close, the way he wets his lips are any indication.

You close yours as well, and are about to close the gap between your bodies – when there is the rapid sound of footsteps approaching, snapping twigs underneath feet, and Sir Ren springs into action.

He wraps a strong arm around your middle and pulls you flush against his chest with enough force to knock the wind out of you, as he spins to grab his sword which rests just on the bank. The entire mood has shifted, and the softness in your knight has vanished, replaced instead with a vicious bark, one that was not nearly as bad as his bite.

“Who goes there?” He commands, “Show yourself!”

Out from the brush appear three young boys, and any fear you felt evaporates.

“We beg your pardon oh Knight!” They all clamor to apologize, bowing and bowing for they know they are in the presence of nobility, of royalty.

“It’s just some children, no doubt fooling around.” You say, but this does not stop you from clinging to him, does not stop your arms from winding around his neck. 

“Find another place to jest.” Kylo orders, and there is an authority in his voice that has you biting your lip.

“Yes sir, of course sir.” The kids bow once more before sprinting off into the direction they came, scared shitless.

Once the kids are gone does Sir Ren seem to realize what he has done, how he has embraced you so.

“Please forgive me, I did not mean to – ” He panics, eyes wide, as he drops his sword on the bank of the river, immediately tries to detangle himself from you.

“Do not apologize, Sir Ren. I take no offense to this.” You interrupt him, both his words and actions, as your arms only tighten around his neck.

You hold your breath as his hands smooth across your soaked smock, and you almost have half a mind to pull the thing off entirely, for you wish to feel his hands on your bare skin desperately.

Your noses are touching, this is how close you are, so close you must go nearly cross eyed to look at him. There is no one now, no one to interrupt you, should he place a kiss upon your lips. He licks his, bites at his bottom lip with those crooked teeth that you so adore, but when he leans in it is only to place his forehead against yours.

“We must dress, no doubt someone will be looking for you.” He murmurs, and your heart sinks slightly.

“Let them look a little longer, I wish to spend my time with you.” You say, and this confuses him, you see pain in his eyes when he sets them on yours.

“Why?” He asks, and this question feels so genuine that your heart now truly breaks, breaks for him, for how can he not see his own worth? How, when he was so worthy?

“I believe there is more to you than what meets the eye.” You answer, because it is true.

“What if there isn’t?” He asks, but you only shake your head, rub your nose against his.

“Why don’t you let me decide that, hm?” You whisper, and this makes him huff, and you wonder if it is a laugh, as you chase his gaze when he looks away from you.

“You’re stubborn.” He says finally, and you grin, tip your head back all the way so that the water might wet it once again, and he supports your back as you do, gets an eyeful of your chest as you do.

“Thank you.” You say with a laugh, for you would rather be a stubborn girl than one with less will.

Soon you will dry off and re-dress, and no doubt Gwendoline will be angry at you for ruining her work on your hair, but this feels like a step, a monumental step, and you feel closer than ever before to your guard, your knight, Sir Ren.


	4. Chapter 4

Kylo is, for lack of a better word, enthralled with you.

Absolutely everything about you, from the way you carry yourself, to the way you seemingly were sunshine incarnate, has him captivated. It is becoming a problem, for he is finding it more and more difficult to remain aloof, to remain distant.

He does not deserve you, this he knows. Neither your kindness nor your smiles, your affectionate gazes. His stomach twists as he dreams against your door, standing upright with his eyes closed for a few hours of sleep.

But oh, they are wicked visions, for they are good dreams, the best of dreams. Dreams of your body close to his, his arms around your middle, back pressed against his chest. They are dreams of the depth of your eyes, the way your lashes fan out against your cheek as you blush at him – the fact that you even blush at him at all.

He is torn, conflicted, so conflicted. He has come to slay his brother, a challenge in and of itself – he was not anticipating you, was not prepared for the way you so quickly, so easily, made a home inside his chest. He feels as though he is falling, until he realizes he is falling, for real, not just in his dreams, and he jolts awake. 

“You slept!” He hears you exclaim as he rushes to catch himself, bracing his arms out on the doorway so he might not topple over you and crush you beneath his armor. 

“Pardon?” He asks, and he is so disoriented, for you are so lovely, dressed and prepared for the day.

You crowd yourself against him as you are wont to do, reach up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear. He frowns, he has never liked his ears, and shakes the hair free to your amusement.

“You were asleep, oh good, I was beginning to worry that you had gone all this time without a wink.” You say, and Kylo is strangely embarrassed, like he has been found out, proven to be mortal. 

“You’ve caught me.” He says, and you beam up at him, for you know this is but a playful jest.

His heart warms at your smile, at the realization that now, something has shifted between you, that he is allowing himself to be more open, more warm. He offers his arm to you and you take it gladly, setting a slow and steady pace down through the hall. Your body is warm beside his, and Kylo does his best to breathe evenly, to focus on putting one foot in front of another.

“Please do not think that I require you alert at all times, a guard is little good to me if he is so exhausted.” You tease, and this admission relieves him of some of his stress.

He opens the door to the stairwell for you and follows carefully behind you down the spiral stone steps, makes sure you do not trip on the fabric of your skirt.

“What is on our agenda today, Lady (Y/N)?” He asks, and you throw a smile over your shoulder to him, one of mild exasperation, of fondness.

“Please, call me just (Y/N).” You instruct, to which is instantly ignores. You are a lady, a princess, of noble and royal blood alike, he will address you as such. “I would like to go into the village, if we may?” You ask, and he frowns.

“What for?” He asks, as this is the second time you’ve wanted to journey to the village.

There has not been another feast in between the last time you visited and now, there is nothing requiring your presence there. What could you possibly want in a farmland that you could not have here in the castle, on the grounds?

“Must there be a reason?” You challenge with a raised brow, reclaiming his arm once you are through with the stairwell, walking past the great hall, ignoring breakfast for the day.

“Most people typically tend to have one.” Kylo points out, a raised brow of his own.

“I am not like most people.” You reply, and Kylo admires your quick wit, for no you truly are not like most, like any he has come across.

“To the village it is, then.” He says with ease, and you puff up at the permission, not that you needed it anyway.

The stables are not far from the castle doors, and you break free from his arm to run the last few paces into the sheltered building. Your horse is there as is Sam, and Kylo thinks it comical the size comparison between the two.

He thinks back to the day he met Sam, his most trusted, if reluctant companion. How he had freed her from an abusive farmer’s whip, how he had slain the man who had carved and branded wounds and scars into her hide. Sam snorts a greeting at Kylo, but is much more interested in you, something he cannot fault the horse for.

You procure an apple each, one for his and your horse, and they eat them happily. 

“Lady (Y/N)! I am afraid I have terrible news, your horse is ill.” The stableboy appears from around the corner, hat removed from his head and gripped tightly in his hands.

You pet the soft nose of your horse, regard him with a frown.

“Ill? But Agnes was perfectly fine just the other day!” You inspect her, and she only whinnies softly, tosses her head as if to say he is lying.

Kylo has been with horses his entire life, and he knows a sick one when he sees it – this is not that. Agnes looks perfectly healthy, her coat is shiny and her eyes are bright, and Kylo gives a hard stare at the stableboy, trying to decide what he’s playing at.

"The Queen has said her brother, Lord Bishop Luke, has prescribed her rest, I am afraid she cannot be ridden for a few days.” The stableboy explains, and your entire mood sours.

Kylo steps forward, hands balled into fists, ready to strangle the boy for ruining such a beautiful smile. You simply sigh, knowing that if the Queen has ordered it, there is nothing to be done.

“Please, make sure she gets the best care possible.” You say, glum before turning to Kylo, “It looks like we must find some other way to spend the day, Sir Ren.”

Sam chuffs and nudges Kylo’s back with her great big nose. He looks at her, and they exchange a glance or two, one that shows she is amendable to having you ride on her back once more.

“We could…” Kylo starts, hoping hoping hoping you do not think him overstepping any boundaries, “We could ride Samantha.”

“The both of us?” You ask with a great grin, no doubt remembering the way he had asked you to ride with him just the other day.

He blushes, for the thought of his arms around you once more has warmth spreading from his stomach, down to his toes, up to his spine where he tingles all over.

“Yes, I could remove some of my armor, so it would not be too heavy on her back.” Kylo says, and your eyes only widen, a great big smirk, a cheeky grin spreading across your face.

“Remove your armor?” You ask, and Kylo blushes, must choose his words carefully so that they may not appear rushed, or stammered.

“Not all of it, but I wear more layers than some deem necessary.” He says, before turning bright crimson when you step close, ever so close to him, your hands resting on his heavy breastplate, resting above his heart.

"If you would feel so comfortable, then I have no opposition.” You say, and Kylo swallows down a whimper for just as you have come, you are gone, giving him some room to breathe and undress.

He sheds two entire layers of protection, lessening the weight of his armor by half. He can already tell Sam is grateful for the lightened load, but she does not complain as you pet her mane, as you call her beautiful. In fact, she preens under the praise, and Kylo allows himself to roll his eyes, for of course his horse would like you better than his own self.

Sam is happy to simply trot down the path towards the village, taking her time. You are in no rush, simply wanting to get out of the castle walls, wanting to breathe the fresh air of nature, unpolluted by stench of civilization.

“Where have you been all these years? Why did they call you lost?” You ask, catching him off guard, as you travel through the wood.

The sunshine filters through the tops of the trees and a green gold washes across the floor in dappled patches. Kylo does not know how to answer, does not know what to say that will not alarm you, for what he has done has been most alarming. You wait, wait for an answer, and he finds he does not want to conceal the truth from you, you deserve the very best, nothing but the truth.

“I have been ruling in the Unknown Regions, under the hand of Chancellor Snoke. They call me the lost prince because I ran away when I was very young.” He says softly, only in your ear, as if there were spirits in the wood that might overhear.

“Why did you run?” You ask, and Kylo sighs.

“Because I am a murderer, a beast, a monster like everyone says.” He explains, the back of his throat burning with acid at the memories of his days as a prince.

“I do not say so.” You reply quietly, quiet and yet firm.

It is quiet for a long while, as Sam follows the path. There are chirping birds and blooming flowers, and you are so lovely pressed against him, his arms around you. All this, and still his mood darkens, he can feel thunder in his veins at the memory. But you do not seem angry with him, you show him nothing but concern, but compassion.

“The Chancellor showed me the truth of my family, the lies, the deception, the corruption. He opened my eyes to their lack of love, of care, their neglect for both me and my kingdom. I was part of a plot, a ploy, to murder them all and ascend the throne – but I was weak. I only managed to remove my father, and when my sister attacked me in retaliation, I slayed her as well, set fire to the castle.” He sighs, scrubs a gloved hand over his face, skin tingling, “She gave me this scar, a parting gift, a reminder of my failure, my shame.”

He fully expects you to gasp in shock, in horror, for this was murder in cold blood you see, this was treason, this was a crime. Instead, you reach out and pick ripened summer strawberries from bushes that Sam passes, and she slows to a halt to allow you to reach for more.

“Were they evil people?” You ask him, twisting your torso around to look up at him and his shining, wet eyes.

“No. But they were not good, either.” He whispers, and you only nod, place a strawberry in his palm.

“And now you are back, to finish the job?” You ask, closing his fist around it, squishing it, the juice running and flowing between his fingers.

“I do not know if I could kill my mother.” He says seriously, for this has been something he has battled with for twenty years.

You nod in understanding, and Kylo is so confused, so bewildered by you.

“But Sir Dameron?” You suggest with a cheeky grin, and this makes him very nearly smile.

“Oh, I have no problem skewering him.” He replies, and you laugh loudly, voice echoing through the forest.

Kylo urges Samantha onward, for at this rate you will never make it to the village before the day is done. She maintains her even pace, hooves clip clopping against the path. It is quiet, and it is peaceful – until it isn’t any longer.

Sam stiffens at the sound of something, and all at once Kylo’s attention is ripped from the soft tune of your humming, eyes scanning the trees.

“Lady (Y/N)! You must go.” He leaps down from his steed, sword drawn immediately as men jump down from the skies, hidden away in branches in the tall trees.

“What – ” You startle, for you are jumping down after him, not realizing, it is all happening too quickly.

There are ten of them, five great big men on the ground, dagger and sword drawn, and five in the trees, wearing camouflage colors of green and brown with bows and arrows poised at the ready. The men on the ground bare their filthy teeth at you, and Kylo does not waste a single moment, before he is defending you from them, swinging his sword expertly against their daggers, deflecting the arrows they shoot at you from above.

Adrenaline rushes through him, for it has been a long while since he has truly fought someone like this, and oh has he longed for the bloodshed of a victory. He shouts, a loud battle cry as he takes on all five men at once. They punch and kick but he weaves in and around them, meets their blows with one of his own, and he is more physically powerful, can move quicker than they can with these layers of his armor removed.

However he is more vulnerable to their bows, and must be careful, must dodge their pointed arrows. He twirls his sword and stabs a man through the stomach, relieved to see that he is not wearing mail of any kind – which means none of them must be.

This suddenly became much easier, he thinks, as he rounds on three more men, slices their gut open, listens to their ear splitting screams as they fall to the ground, slip and slide on their own mess.

The archers look at one another in fear, but with false bravery they descend from the trees, leap down and draw their swords. Kylo meets them, overpowers them, has no qualm to remove their hands, to slice the backs of their knees and incapacitate them. One by one they crumble to a pile, wailing and choking.

Kylo spears his sword through their necks from where they lay on the ground in agony, watches as blood bubbles up, gurgles through their gaping mouths.

“Get your hands off of me!” You shout, and Kylo whirls around to see the last man standing with his hand on your wrist.

Kylo sees red.

He storms over to where you are punching and punching this man in the face, trying to get him to let go of you, and Kylo tears you from his grip. Roughly he pushes you against a tree, a silent command to stay there, as he hauls the man up from the ground. He is tall, but Kylo is taller, and stronger, and he lifts this bandit, this scum of the earth by his throat, feet dangling and swinging for purchase as he chokes.

“What have you come here for?” Kylo demands, tightens his grip on the man’s throat, “Answer me!”

“For the princess!” The man chokes out, sobs, for now he can see the carnage that Kylo has left behind, nine bodies strewn about, some in pieces, some with their entrails spilled out from their bodies. All dead, and he knows he is to join them.

“To kill her?” Kylo shouts in his face, screams it, for he has come to realize that there is no greater fear he has, no greater crime that anyone could commit, than to want to do you harm.

“No! No – no just for the gold she wears, I swear it upon my life!” The man begs and cries and pleads, but Kylo shakes his head, sneers and scowls at him in disgust.

“Your life has little worth to me.” He spits in the man’s face, and with his other hand stabs his sword deep through his stomach.

He releases the man’s throat and watches as he falls deeper onto his sword, impaling himself as he falls down down down to the ground, a disgusting, tearing sound of flesh met with a heavy wet smack as the man goes limp on the earth. 

Kylo’s chest is heaving, his shoulders are tense. He tenses when he feels hands on his back, rounds quickly to see who else there might be, but it is only you, only you.

“Lady (Y/N) what are you – ”

“I told you, I will not stand by and watch you bleed.” You say, searching him, checking him all over. He does not feel pain, but that is only because he is not paying attention, and the more he tries to will himself to relax, the more he can feel stinging all over. It is in his palm, in his calf, his back. You yank off his gloves, and deep red crimson spills. “Your wound has opened back up, it might do for me to stitch it closed.”

Kylo frowns, wipes the sweat off his brow.

“We cannot stay here, it is unsightly, these people.” He says, wanting to shelter you from the gory, horrific sight before you. For surely this must repulse you, the state of things, the state of him.

You only shake your head, reach into the small pocket you have tied around your waist, fish out a small vial of clear water, needle and thread.

“I do not mind, you must be tended to.” You insist, your hands shaking and your chin trembling, and Kylo rushes to cup your cheek, rushes to soothe you. He would move Heaven and Earth to prevent a single tear of your from falling down your nose. “I feel awful, I am so sorry.” You whisper and he shakes his head.

“You have nothing to apologize for, do you understand?” You may be insistent but so is he, “I am your guard, this is what I am meant for.”

And when you look up at him, when he sees the clearness in your eyes, he sees something else, a hunger he cannot place.

“You are meant for so much more than this.” You whisper, letting him dwell on that as you sit him down on the soft earth where there is no blood.

You close the wound on his hand once more, secure it with fine stitching, a true embroiderers touch. All the while you tend to him with such care, such a steady hand, such even breathing, that Kylo wonders how you are real at all. Any person he has known would have stayed atop his horse and ridden away, would have put as much distance between them and the danger as possible.

But you, you rushed to his aid, you punched a man in the face over and over again. You were no damsel, no weak thing in peril. He wonders if you had had a sword, a dagger, what damage you could have done.

“Do you know how to fight with weapons of steel?” He asks, and you lightly trace the line of stiches when you tie them off, cut the thread with your teeth.

“Of course, though I have none of my own. There was no time to grad my knife, during the siege.” You explain, and Kylo nods, stands up from the earth and goes to Samantha, who had been nothing but a great witness to the fight.

In one of her knapsacks is a push dagger, a new weapon he had been experimenting with for his own self. He found he much preferred his sword, but carried the dagger around with him, for it would be a great waste if someone did not use it.

“Take this.” He offers you the dagger, places it in your hands.

“It’s beautifully made, pray tell where did you find this?” You gasp in delight, hold it up to the sun so that you might get a better glimpse of the engraving, the detailing that covers practically every inch of the blade.

“I made it with mine own hands.” Kylo says, and you stop in your tracks.

“You?” You ask, turning to face him with wide eyes, “You made this?”

“I have made everything you see me wear and hold.” Kylo gestures to his body, and he blinks when you are suddenly pressed close to him, barely a breath away, your hands running over his armor.

There is blood there, and you smear it with your fingertips, seemingly not caring, seemingly in awe.

“You mean to tell me you are, in addition to a prince and a knight, you are a blacksmith too?” You whisper, and Kylo does not know why this is appealing, why the thought of him covered in ash and sweat, bent over a fire and hammering metal may be so attractive, but your pupils dilate in a way that makes him stir.

“Chancellor Snoke taught me everything I know. This armor took over one thousand hours, the sword nearly as long.” He says, and your ribcage expands as you take in a deep breath, as you bite your lip.

Your hand travels down his stomach to his side, where the pommel sticks out, juts against your hip.

“It is a very capable sword.” You smooth your hand up and down the hilt, and Kylo goes deathly still, for that is far too suggestive, far too close to what he does to his cock, which is only inches away from your hand. “May I?” You ask with big round eyes, and he finds his breathing quickening although there is no danger.

“It is heavy.” He murmurs, and a soft groan escapes your throat as you pull it out of its hilt.

“Divine, it is absolutely divine. So big.” You say, and the words travel right to his dick, make his head go dizzy with want.

He can’t, should not, lust after you – it isn’t right, isn’t proper, but you – heaven you make it so difficult, when you’re looking up at him like that, hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword. Surely you must know what it is you do to him, but in the case that you do not, he would not dare be the one to bring it up, not dare to be the one to tarnish your virtue.

“Lady (Y/N),” He chokes out as you caress his sword, “We…we must return to the castle, must rinse away the blood of these enemies.”

“Perhaps I might like to be covered in it, for it is a reminder of your strength, of this victory.” You do not make this easy, you make nothing easy, not as you loop your arms around his neck, as you press your body close to his – so close that you might very well feel the hard press of his cock through his trousers when you whisper, “I am indebted to you.”

“I require no such payment.” He removes your arms, and you smile, place his sword back in his holster.


	5. Chapter 5

The ride back to the castle is without any issue, although he is most uncomfortable, for his cock is still hard and being pressed against you atop his horse does nothing to lessen that want, that craving. He wills himself to be calm, wills and prays and begs silently inside his own head for the strength to at the very least make it through the rest of the day.

You return to the castle in secret, slip down to the storerooms to eat instead of going to the great hall. You do not want a fuss, you tell him, you simply want to go to bed.

So Kylo accompanies you to your bedchambers, leaves you in the capable hands of Gwendoline as he takes his armor down to the brook, scrubs it and himself clean. You have a perfumed bath in your room, and Kylo is grateful, glad that the scum will be washed away from you, from your hair, your clothes.

That evening, he stands at full attention, having had the chance to let the events settle into his bones.

Kylo is ever more vigilant than before, now. Now that there has been proof of a true necessity for your protection, now that he has seen firsthand that there are those who might do you harm.

Those who would have, had he not been there. He looks to the stitches which lace together his palm, and thunder cracks outside, loud and brash as it booms across the castle. The rain is heavy, and this does not bode well, is not a good sign for a peaceful night.

He wonders, as he stands outside your door back pressed firmly against the wood, if you are afraid of thunder or of lightning. He used to be, when he was only a boy, before the thunder and lightning forged him into the man he is today.

You are sound asleep in your bed, and this thought brings him comfort, for each time he blinks he can only see the terror in your face, can only relive the shout of pain you let slip when that filthy man gripped your wrist in an attempt to twist you to submission. He grits his teeth, hand flexing on his sword’s pommel as that shout echoes in his mind like the thunder does in the hall.

He sighs, looks through the window though it is a fruitless endeavor. There would be no visibility this night, and this makes him anxious – how is he to see your attackers if there is no way to see them? Fortunately, the castle servants have lit the sconces, one on either side of your door. Kylo stands between them and is grateful for their warmth. Who knew a summer night could be so cold?

Left alone with his thoughts, they begin to fixate on the attack, on your reaction to it.

Time and time again, you reacted in a manner Kylo did not expect. The way that you had run to his side, the way you had refused to hide, the way you tended to his wound without a second thought – all of this had him in such shock. You did not bat an eye at the blood which splattered his armor, paid no mind to the men who laid strewn across the floor, sliced to pieces and stabbed to a gory death by his sword, his hand, the hand you held tightly in your own.

He knew not what the feeling in his chest was, but whatever it was, it had a strong grip on him, one he could not shake.

He wasn’t so sure he wanted to.

All of his thinking about you is interrupted by a low noise that he hears coming from your room.

He freezes, tries to parse if it is just a trick of the rain, the thunder. But no, there it is again, a groan, low and long, and panic begins to build within him.

He turns to face your door, presses an ear against the wooden planks which separate the two of you. He quiets his mind, trains his hearing to focus – and yes there it is again, this time higher in tone, a wail. Kylo is indecisive.

He has never been inside your bedchambers before, no man has. He has never been inside the bedchambers of, well, any woman before, for it is improper, it is inappropriate –

“Sir Ren!” You cry, call for him, and that is all it takes. They may have his head for this, but you are groaning for him and he is sworn to protect you, and he does not know, can not know, what ails you from standing on the other side of your door.

He checks the door, fully anticipated to find it locked as it should be, as he has told you to do, but instead the handle turns easily for him, and Kylo decides that when you are safe, when you are feeling better, he will remind you that you must take all precautions for your safety – especially after the events of the day.

He takes a deep breath and opens the door, rounds inside the bedchambers and closes it behind him, sword drawn, before he drops it clean out of his grip, for you are in your bed yes, but you are not tucked in underneath the covers like Kylo had envisioned.

No, instead you are spread out on top of them, your smock bunched up above your waist, your knees parted as your toes curl into your sheets. His eyes widen as he takes in the sight of you, his mouth goes dry – before practically flooding, salivating, as he takes stock of your hand between your legs.

You are writhing in your bed, but it is not with pain, it is with pleasure.

He has made a grave mistake.

You freeze, no doubt wondering what Kylo is doing there, and he too is frozen. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to think of something to say, some apology that could be worthy of this error, and his mind is racing. Surely you must be mortified; he has embarrassed you, he has walked in on such a private moment, an intimate moment!

And yet, you do not scream at him to leave your chambers. You do not lob an object as his head, you do not move to cover yourself.

Your fingers begin to move once more, and Kylo holds his breath, when he realizes when you cried out his name, it hadn’t been in agony, it had been a moan.

“Sir Ren.” You throw your head back onto your pillow and moan for him again, as if you could read his mind.

His cock fills out immediately in his trousers – no one had ever said his name in quite that manner. You carry on as if he were not there, as if he were not some imposing figure looming at your door. Your hips arch up into your hand, and Kylo’s feet carry him towards you of their own accord, not coming to a rest until he is at the foot of your bed, until he leans his chest against the corner wooden post which holds up your canopy.

Shame burns through him, rips through his stomach, warms him from the inside of his armor out. He can feel the back of his neck sweating, has to lick his lips, bite at them to keep him from saying something stupid, from making you stop.

God, he doesn’t want you to stop.

He can see the stiff peaks of your nipples poking up your smock, can see the dark stains where sweat has soaked through it. How long had you been touching yourself like this, he wonders, wonders if this is the first occasion – or if there had been others, other moments he was unaware of.

Your eyes are closed, and he doesn’t think, doesn’t give it a second moment to mull over as he reaches his hand under his chainmail, dips his own hand into his trousers.

His cock is leaking at the tip, spurred on by your sighs and pants, and he has to brace himself against the bed. He sits down on the edge of your mattress, a soft thing that dips dramatically when he adds his weight in all his armor. It dips so dramatically in fact, that you are pulled to him, your body sliding down towards him, and you only let out a little laugh as you throw your legs over Kylo’s lap.

He has died, he decided, he must have been killed in that ambush, for no creature as lovely as you could ever be so at ease with yourself around him, ever so encouraging. And encouraging you are, as you continue to pleasure yourself, opening your eyes to watch him do the same.

He growls, frustrated that he is in full plate, frustrated that he cannot pull himself free, instead he must be content with this, with his hand down his trousers as he has his eye trained on your hand, moves to the speed at which you move yours.

“I – I’m going to come,” You gasp, and he grunts out an acknowledgment, trying to catch up.

He wants to fuck you, wants to make love to you, but he can’t, not like this – not under these circumstances, not like this. He strains to catch a glimpse of you, of your cunt, but your hand covers it and he cannot bear to tell you to stop, not when you are clearly so close.

“Cover my mouth.” You order and he doesn’t know why you demand it, doesn’t bother to ask you, only splays his leather-clad palm over your lips.

You shout, loudly, and Kylo then understands. Your moans would have carried through the hall, not even the thunder could have stopped them. Kylo is still stroking his cock, pulling at it with force and speed, but now he feels awkward that he is the only one.

“Don’t stop,” You say, command, and his chest hitches as he continues to jerk off.

Your legs are still draped over his lap, and Kylo admires them, the way the flesh of your thigh trembles, the way your knees are turned towards one another. You are smudging his armor, smearing it, ruining the polished finish and he groans loudly, thuds his head against the post which holds up this corner of the canopy, so turned on by that.

He never wants to wash the evidence of this night away.

His orgasm takes him by surprise, and he curses, come spurting over his hand inelegantly. The release is incredible, he doesn’t think he’s come that hard ever. But the beauty of the moment vanishes, when you pull your legs away and he is immediately reminded of the circumstances, of what he has done.

He winces when you raise your hand, expecting and bracing for a slap to the face, but when none comes and he cracks open an eye, it is to see you kneeling before him, offering him a square of silk, white with braided edging.

“Use this.” You whisper, and he knows you mean to clean up, to wipe away his come.

Kylo does as he’s told, and with shaking hands he does his best to clean up his mess without exposing himself to you. The silk is cool against his overheated skin, and he regrets the finery of the napkin you’ve given him, regrets how it is now sullied with such a sinful thing as his come.

He wants to kiss you, desperately, but he will not ruin you the way he has ruined this napkin. He tucks it into your waiting hand, and you clasp your glistening fingers around it, and Kylo’s stomach swoops at the thought of your come mixing together, living together there in that silk. 

“Good night, Lady (Y/N).” Kylo murmurs, gathering himself together and retreating at once to your door.

He opens it and takes one last look at you for the night, the way your hair curls and sticks to your cheek from the sweat that has dampened it, the way you still kneel on your bed, hand outstretched as if calling to him, beckoning him.

“Call me (Y/N).” You say.

But you say it with a smile before flopping backwards onto your pillow, and when Kylo closes the door behind him, he knows that he is forgiven.

* * *

The next morning, you say nothing of your shared dalliance. You simply smile at him, and it is a knowing smile, and Kylo blushes behind you as he accompanies you all the way down to the great hall for breakfast, where there is sure to be a fuss.

And a fuss there is indeed – however this time it is not with anger they regard Kylo, it is with awe, with admiration.

“Lady (Y/N)! Is it true? Are there bandits in the wood?” A servant girl rushes up to you, clutching a bowl of pears to her chest as you and Kylo ascend the steps of the high table.

Kylo pulls out your chair for you, and stands behind you with hands clasped behind his back.

You gratefully take a pear, begin slicing it into pieces that you dip into honey.

“There were! And oh what a horrible group of men, I am eternally grateful for my guard, Sir Ren. If he were not with me, I do not know what might have become of me.” You beam, practically an angel, looking up at him with such adoration in your eyes that he must look away, for he can feel his ears burning from your kind words.

“Sir Ren?” His mother asks, as if she is surprised by this news.

She never did believe him capable of very much, he thinks bitterly. But that bitterness cannot remain, not when you turn to offer him a slice of pear, proud of him.

“Yes! He killed them swiftly, it was magnificent. I have never seen such speed and efficiency in my entire life. There we were, going down the path in the wood, the one to the village you know, and my goodness it was like something of a fairy tale the way they leapt from the trees, knives drawn!” You recounted.

“No.” Gwendoline gasps with mock shock, for you had told her the story last evening when Kylo had taken his bath.

“Sir Ren noticed the attack before I did, and he jumped down from his great steed with his weapon drawn, told me to flee the scene but I could not leave him, I was too enthralled with his swordsmanship. There were ten great men and within the blink of an eye, four lay on the ground bleeding from wounds to the neck and stomach.” You continue with a nod, and Kylo is enjoying your enthusiasm so much, that he does not notice at first when Dameron groans.

“Is this the most appropriate breakfast conversation?” He asks, swirling his spoon round and round in his porridge.

“Oh don’t tell me you are squeamish, Sir Dameron?” You ask, brow raised. 

“No! No not at all I just think that perhaps the ladies at the table might like to be spared the gory details.” Dameron grumbles, and Kylo cannot help himself.

He takes a step forward and leans down so that he may speak only into your ear. Everyone in the hall strains, either obviously or subtly, to try and listen to what he says.

“It appears as though he seems far too concerned with the ladies and less so with his own training.” Kylo murmurs, the ghost of a jest on your ear, and you snort into the goblet which you had just lifted to your lips.

Satisfied, he straightens back up, as Dameron grumbles, brow pinched in a petulant scowl.

“What?” He demands to know, but you simply bite the inside of your cheek, shake your head.

“Nothing at all.” You said, though there is still a hint of humor in your voice, and Kylo’s chest warms through and through, knowing he has such an easy time making you laugh. “Anyway, _then_ he…”

You spend the morning recounting the events, even going so far as to reenact with him. Kylo did little more than stand there while you pretended to stab him in the stomach with your spoon, but it entertained the entire hall, so much so that when you were finished with your breakfast and gathered your skirt up to leave, he was met with slight applause rather than harsh glares.

You were laughing with Kylo when once again, your happy mood was soiled by the prince, as he came chasing after the two of you.

“Lady (Y/N)!” He calls, throws a hand up to catch your attention.

“Yes, Sir Dameron?” You all but groan, and he braces his hands on his knees before tousling his hair and attempting to charm you.

“I was wondering if perhaps this afternoon you would take a walk with me, through the grounds.” Dameron asks, offering you his arm.

You simply look at it.

“Only if my guard may accompany us.” You agree, which brings irritation to Dameron’s face, and a victorious satisfaction to Kylo’s heart.

“Your highness may I remind you that I too am a knight?” Dameron asks, exasperated.

“You may.” You remark, sarcastic.

“I do not see why you must make things so much more difficult than necessary.” Dameron huffs, runs a hand through his hair, and for just a single moment, Kylo feels bad for him, for how stupid must one be, to not get the hint that he is unwanted?

“And I do not see why you insist on making me so uncomfortable with your attempts at an advancement.” You snap back, and anger flashes across his face.

“I – ” Dameron takes a step towards you with clenched jaw and fists, and Kylo intervenes immediately.

“Don’t.” He warns, threatens this man, his brother, for the second time.

It would seem that this is the limit.

“And you! I have about had enough of you. Bad enough you aim to steal your mother’s crown, but after what you did to your father? To our sister! How dare you show your face.” He spits, looks to you, to gauge your reaction. He thinks you do not know, that Kylo did not tell you. Well, he finds, they both find, he is wrong.

“He cannot steal what is rightfully his.” You seethe from behind Kylo, hands sliding around his waist.

Dameron’s eyes widen at the gesture, but he only growls.

“And what will you do with it? When you have it, if you win?” He steps forward once again, and Kylo is thankful for you, for only your arms around him are what is holding him back from breaking that perfect nose. “You know nothing of running a country, how could you having spent your whole life away?”

“You know nothing of what Sir Ren has done with his time away.” You say, angry, defensive, “Do not assume him to be so incapable.”

“Why do you stand up for him?! Why?” He explodes, and at this you dart around Kylo’s body, force yourself right in between them, teeth bared at this insufferable man.

“Because he is my friend!” You shout, shout so loudly, making Kylo’s ears ring, making all time stand still. “Do you still wish for a walk around the grounds, o kind and noble knight, Sir Dameron?” You have acid in your voice, and Dameron gets the message, finally.

“Perhaps another day.” He nods with a scowl, bows deeply, just as sarcastically.

“I shall await the moment with bated breath.” You have the last word, before Dameron turns on his heels and retreats to the castle.

Kylo can only see your tense shoulders from his position behind you, can only see the way your hands are balled into fists at your side. He reaches out, tentatively, ever so hesitantly, and hooks his pinky through yours.

“You consider me a friend?” He whispers, for the word has never been uttered in his regard before.

The tension falls, and you sigh, turn to face him with a sad smile. 

“Of course I do.” You whisper back, not wanting to yell at him accidentally, as your hand twines with his own, careful of the stitches. “Surely you must know that.”

“Forgive me, I have never had one before.” Kylo admits, admits right there on the grass of the castle grounds, and you cup his cheek, press your forehead against his own in a gesture that he has now come to crave.

“Well now you do.” You say, and his chest tightens, tightens even more when you pull away.

* * *

The next morning, Kylo is restless. He paces up and down the hall, unable to stand by your door any longer. The sun has barely risen above the hills to the East when he hears light excited footsteps running down the hall of the castle, a familiar gait that has his heart beating ever slightly faster.

“Sir Ren!” He hears, your bright voice only confirming his suspicions, and he turns to face you, to bow deeply before you. You grin, eternally pleased to see him, and you give a proper curtsy of your own. “Good morning, are you well?” You ask, out of breath only slightly from having sprinted to greet him.

“My morning has been made much better, now that you’ve awoken.” Kylo says, and you only duck your head in modesty, as you loop your arm through his. This has become your favorite fashion for walking through the castle, and Kylo cannot bring himself to deny you it, even if he is afraid the metal of his armor will be cold against your hands, will chill your sleeve.

“The weather is pleasant, is it not?” You ask, completely undeterred by his plate and chainmail, instead content to lead him through the castle, past the windows where sunlight pours through in pale yellow beams that have your hair shining.

He notes the small basket you have pressed to your hip, and he wonders where or when you had snuck off to gather such a thing, for he had been outside of your door all evening save for the wee early hours of morning when he stole away for his daily bath in the brook.

“Yes, why, have you something you’d like to do?” He asks playfully, for clearly you do, and you laugh at his feigned ignorance, in the best of moods this fine morning.

“As a matter of fact, I would.” You say, before whispering conspiratorially, “You see there is a secret clearing of which I know, and I have found myself longing to witness its testament to beauty. It was my hope you may accompany me there for breakfast.” You waggle an eyebrow at him and he stops in his tracks.

“How did you learn of this clearing?” He asks, and you look very much like the cat which got the cream in the way you smirk.

“A nightingale told me of it in a dream.” You reply, and he hums, because of course he wouldn’t be getting a straight answer out of you, not for anything it would seem.

You are so unlike any woman he had ever come across, he thinks, and he realizes he’s staring when you begin to blush.

“A dream, I see.” He says, nodding to himself, letting himself be pulled as you all but drag him further down the hall.

“If I told you it would not then be a secret, would it?” You countered, and Kylo only sighed, for as playful as you were, there were real dangers out in the world, real people who wanted to cause you real harm.

He had defended you once, and he would do so gladly again, but the thought of you two so unguarded had him genuinely concerned.

“I am not so certain it is indeed a secret, nor that it would be safe to conduct such a leisurely activity as a picnic, so wide in the open.” He expresses his worries, and in typical fashion you only give him a look of such longing that Kylo feels uncharacteristically vulnerable, like you’re looking directly into his soul.

Maybe, he thinks, you are.

“Oh but my dear knight, of course it would be safe, for I would be with you.” You say, say so softly that Kylo thinks he has misheard it, and he does not know how to handle this, how to respond. Fortunately, you give him reprieve of your affectionate gaze, and turn your sights to his steed who grazes out front, “And Sam, of course.”

“I presume you already have food and drink packed?” He asks, gesturing to the basket which you hold in your free hand, which swings back and forth from the gentle force of your walking.

“Your presumptions have yet to fail you.” You confirm, before rounding on him suddenly, “Please, may we go? I don’t wish to eat with the Queen and her ward, I find myself growing entirely too weary of the loudness of the dining hall.”

He searches your eyes and finds only the truth, and who is he to deny you this? He is your guard, you are a princess, he is happy to serve.

“Alright.” He concedes finally, making you practically jump into his arms, down and off of him as quickly as you were on, as you take his hand and tug him down to the castle grounds.

“Wonderful! Oh thank you, Sir Ren, thank you.” You burst into happiness, like a thousand poppies opening their petals, and Kylo has to plant his feet firmly to prevent you from running away on your own.

“Wait, where are you going?” He asks, making your smile fall in slight confusion.

“The clearing, it is this way.” You say, giving his hand a squeeze, but he only shakes his head.

“No – the morning dew will have moistened the path,” Kylo says, before wrapping an arm around your middle and one behind your knees as he carries you like a newly wedded bride, holding you close to his chest for the short distance it takes to reach Sam. “It would not do to muddy your shoes.”

He sets you atop his horse, and Sam whinnies and tosses her head happily. You smooth your hand over her cropped mane, and settle yourself in the saddle, confused for a moment as Kylo remains on the ground, holding Sam’s reigns in his hand.

“Will you not join me up here?” You ask, and Kylo shakes his head.

“I don’t think Sam would like that very much.” He points out, a fact which his horse confirms with a loud chuff of her nostrils.

“But Sam does not know I am afraid of heights.” You lie with a smile, an attempt to get him to fold.

“Rest assured my lady, I will always catch you if you should fall.” He says instead, and he has succeeded in charming you once again for the moment.

You ride in companionable silence for a short while, eager to simply enjoy the beauty of your surroundings. The trees are green and healthy for it is summer and the last of the spring chill has dissipated. The further you travel, the warmer the sun grows, and soon you are unbuttoning the brooch that holds the collar of your kirtle closed.

It takes great restraint for Kylo not to stare, not to steal glances in the hopes that he might see a hint of your cleavage. His ears grow warm at the thought, his mind wandering back to the rather chaotic day at the river only a week ago. How you were clothed and yet nearly bare to him all at once, how the fabric of your shift had clung to your form…

“Look – just there!” You gasp, and Kylo’s first instinct is to reach for his sword, until he registers that it is excitement in your voice rather than fear. He looks in the direction that you have pointed, and he instantly relaxes when he hears the soft baaing of livestock. “My family used to own many sheep, they’re my favorite creature. As a small child I used to run among them, pick fallen leaves out of their wool. The lambs and I would jump together through the fields in the spring, and I would feed them wildflowers when I was finished. Their milk sours my stomach, which is a great shame, for it is so delicious, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” Is all he says, for now he is paranoid, checking the tops of trees for bandits that may be lurking in the shadows.

You fall silent once again, yet once again it is not uncomfortable.

“I think it is admirable, what you are doing, by the by.” You say, apropos of nothing. He looks to you with a slight frown, but you are glancing up through the trees. “Reclaiming your country, your title as king. I know it may seem obvious to you now, but you have my full support in the endeavor. I should like to see you on the throne rather than Dameron, when the time comes.”

He does not know why you would say such a thing, for a declaration like that would be treasonous at the very least. Yet he finds himself less scandalized than relieved, and he mulls over a response in his head.

Should he tell you? Should he let you know he has dreamed of you sitting beside him on great carved thrones made of the finest wood, wearing a crown forged from the softest gold, encrusted with the deepest sapphires? Should he confess his desires to call you his queen, ask your hand right then and there?

“Tell me about the dream, the one with the nightingale.” He says instead, heart thudding too wildly.

He cannot figure you out, cannot parse through your playful teasing and your sincerity. Or perhaps he can, and he is just too afraid that it is true, the things that you say – for how could he deserve such finery, after all he has done, all he has been through?

You do not jest with him, this he knows, but he cannot bear to think it true.

Luckily, you indulge him, and the conversation shifts to much less overwhelming topics.

“It was beautiful, you were there, walking with me as you always are. I do not know where we were going or why, but we found ourselves in the wood where a tawny brown nightingale hopped onto a cherry branch and chirped its sweet song at us.” You say, and Kylo can picture it, can picture exactly that. “I grasped your hand in mine own and we chased the bird through the wood to a clearing of tall grasses and wildflowers, where the sun shone brightly and we feasted upon a large loaf of bread and butter.”

“I like cherries.” He admits, and you gasp in delight at this news, startling Sam into a halt.

“Then I shall fetch us some! Help me down?” You ask eagerly, already collecting your skirt so it may not tangle around your feet, already swinging your leg over the saddle.

“Lady (Y/N) I don’t think – ” He protests, but you are already poised for action and he finds himself scrambling to free his arms of helmet and basket.

“Sir Ren if you do not help me I will have to jump and what might become of me then?” You ask, and he drops all that he carries to lift you by the waist and place you gently down onto the ground.

You do not stay there very long, and he watches as you nimbly climb into the nearest tree you can find, hand over hand as you ascend the branches, until you are far enough up that Kylo can barely see you through the leaves.

And you had a fear of heights, right, he thinks fondly.

“Toss me a small pouch?” You call, and Kylo searches his knapsack for one that might serve you well, a small woolen pocket embroidered by his own hand.

It takes a few tries for you to catch it, and you laugh and laugh as the attempts grow more and more futile, until finally Kylo decides to climb the damned tree himself, desperately trying to hide his own amusement as he bites the inside of his cheek.

The two of you hidden away in the tree like this feels more intimate than Kylo had prepared for, especially when you crowd him against the trunk, press a cherry to his mouth.

“Are they ripe?” You ask through hooded lids, watch as Kylo parts his lips to accept the fresh fruit, his teeth grazing the skin of your fingertips in a manner that has you shuddering.

He doesn’t trust himself to speak, instead he takes his time chewing the cherry, mindful of the pit which he plucks from between his teeth. He chucks it across the wood, where it might one day plant and add to the collection of trees, and you smile for that is answer enough.


	6. Chapter 6

Cherries are not enough however, to keep the growling of his stomach at bay. He is embarrassed, but you only smile knowingly, and the two of you climb back down the tree, Kylo positioning you back atop his horse. You cradle the pouch in your lap, filled to the brim with the fruit you will no doubt enjoy in a moment, enjoy with all the other splendid foods you have brought with you. 

Kylo begins to grow skeptical when it seems as though the wood continues on and on. He wonders if your dream had been only that, just an imaginary concoction, as you ride through the wood. But then, just as he’s about to suggest turning back, or stopping to rest for a moment to eat right there, the dirt path gives way to a field of bluebells. 

And you grow excited as you urge Sam onwards, Kylo maintaining his place at your side as he too becomes eager. The bluebells cover the ground until they are at the very edge of the wood, and Kylo must admit he is impressed when before him lays a great expanse of tilled land, neat and even.

There are few trees here, instead large sections of the area have been conformed to manicured sections, each a variety of green grasses and flowers. They are buttercup yellow and daisy white, and the sky is a powder blue that boasts few fluffy clouds. Unlike deep in the wood, here there is a breeze, and Kylo becomes entranced, not with the sights of nature, but rather with the sight of your hair fluttering softly.

“Oh isn’t it gorgeous!” You remark, hopping down from Sam with an ease that makes Kylo’s chest fond, forgetting yourself and your supposed fear of heights for once and for all, turning to him and taking the basket from his hands, running away from the edge of the wood to find a much better spot than there, a spot with sun and yet shade, with grasses but level ground. 

“Yes.” Kylo says to himself, for you are out of ear shot and cannot hear him when he says, “Yes you are.”

You find a good location to rest, and happily you arrange the contents of the basket so that you may enjoy a happy feast for breakfast. Kylo allows Sam to graze on the wildflowers and grasses that sway calmly as he stands near you, watching you unpack the foods. 

There is a round loaf of hearty bread, eggs boiled in their shells among clusters of small cheeses that are encased in wax, crisp yellow apples and of course the cherries you picked only moments ago. You unwrap some cheese and dip it only for a moment into the small jug of wine, before biting off a chunk and laying down, eyes closed, letting the sun warm your face.

Kylo watches all of this in awe, at how you can be so at ease, how you can be so relaxed.

Without opening your eyes you pat the space next to you, smile to yourself.

“Won’t you lie with me?” You ask, and Kylo shakes his head, though you cannot see.

“I’m afraid not.” He says, but you are not so easily deterred, if nothing else he has learned this.

“And pray tell why not?” You insist, always stubborn, always questioning him, challenging him.

“What good is a bodyguard if he is not alert to danger?” Kylo says simply, and you laugh brightly at the idea.

“I do believe the only thing I am in danger of at the moment is perhaps the sting of a bee, or the bite of an ant. And you would much better protect me from here than there.” You say, and Kylo, against his better judgement, settles down in the grass near you.

Not quite exactly next to you, but facing you in a way that he can see behind you, see if anyone were to creep up.

He looks beyond you for just a moment before something dawns on him.

“You’re wearing the red kirtle again.” He says, and this makes you open your eyes then, makes you sit up, smooth the fabric over your knees where it has begun to ride up only slightly.

“Yes.” You reply, amused that he is just now noticing.

“You’ve worn it the past three days. Has something happened to your other dresses?” Kylo grows concerned for them, and you only shrug, reach across the spread of food you have prepared, and pluck an apple from the pile.

“They do not please your eye as this one does, therefore they are of no use to me.” You smile softly at him, and Kylo cannot help himself but for his ears to go red. Never before in his life, had a lady done something like this, something for him. “You must be starving, here, please eat.”

You hand him an apple and he accepts it graciously, holds it between his palms and rips it in half like he has done all his life. He raises one half to his lips to take a bite when he sees your shocked expression, how your eyes have grown wide and your mouth dropped open.

“What?” He asks, looking over his own shoulder, trying to see what it is you must be looking at.

When it is clear there is nothing, he turns back towards you, to see your gaze cast away, lip bitten, hands busying themselves in the hem of your dress.

“Nothing, I have just never seen someone with such easy strength.” You remark, awe in your voice, and he blinks a frown, for that is not a true show of his strength, not by any means at all.

“It isn’t hard, here I’ll show you – ” He says, offering you another apple, but you refuse him, shake your head at once.

“No! No I would rather not learn.” You interrupt, growing silent as his hand lowers, and he is concerned, immediately afraid he has upset you, has disrespected you somehow. He wracks his mind for an apology that may suit you, but when you look up at him once more, he finds no anger in your eyes, rather a wistful sadness that aches almost as much when you say, “For if I do, then what excuse will I have to ask you to do it for me?”

Kylo and you simply look at one another for a moment, before he moves behind you, sits down on the grass and pulls your back to his chest as he places the apple in your palm. He positions his hands around yours, and the both of you split the apple with ease.

“You need not a single excuse, I would do it every time.” He murmurs in your ear, swallows hard against the lump in his throat. 

You take a large bite out of the crisp apple, the sound of your teeth tearing through the fruit music to his ears, and he is humbled, grateful, that you would eat the food he prepares for you, even if it is a small preparation as this.

You both remain in this position for a good long while, until more and more you begin to lean back into him, until Kylo must brace himself with his hands atop the earth, so that you may rest your head upon his shoulder.

You remove the stems from the cherries you have picked, and toss them up into the air so that Kylo may catch them between his teeth. You let out a small cheer each time he succeeds, and soon his lips are stained a deep red color, he can feel it. When the last of the cherries are gone, and the pits scattered to the wind, he is pleasantly full, and grateful for your spot against his shoulder so that you might not see the way he blushes at your applause.

You hum to yourself, a tune that Kylo recognizes and recognizes as a celebration of summer, Mirie It Is, and your eyes close against the warmth of the sun as you hum and hum, your fingers idly playing with a piece of grass you have plucked from the earth, twirling it round and round. Aside from your humming, it is quiet, the only sounds in the clearing are your even breathing and the chirping of the morning birds.

As the song comes to an end, your breathing deepens and soon Kylo realizes you have fallen asleep, putting him in quite the predicament.

He realizes you cannot remain like this, leaned back against his chest while you nap, because you would surely grow uncomfortable in that position, your back stiff or your neck in a crick where your face is turned into his throat. He is also vulnerable to danger like this, for if someone were to approach with the intent to harm, he would not be able to react fast enough without waking you.

However…

He cannot shake the thought of you being so comfortable as to fall asleep in his arms, for they are still around your middle. He cannot bring himself to part from you, to disturb you in any way, to do would cause him pain. 

Still, he is no stranger to pain, and he ever so carefully maneuvers you so that you may lay down atop the soft grass. A flower tickles your nose accidentally, and he swiftly rips it from the earth. He regards the small flower, a tiny thing with fair white petals, and places it gently in your hair, tucks it just behind your ear. Your lashes flutter softly against your cheek, and Kylo hopes you are having pleasant dreams.

He allows you to sleep as he walks just a few paces past, surveying the clearing.

He thinks of all the land that would be his, should he succeed in slaying his enemy, Sir Dameron. He thinks that this land might be given to you, if you would be so amendable as to receive it. He thinks of you coming to the clearing as often as you would like, and his heart yearns for a future where you might feed him cherries and he you apples.

He continually checks in on you, as the time passes, continues to make sure you are safe and comfortable.

He finds on one such checking, that you have arranged your limbs in a manner that is entirely suggestive, and he blushes at the thought – for it recalls memories of the night of the ambush, memories he had been trying to swallow for days now, memories that refused to stay locked away.

He licks his lips and wills himself not to grow overheated from the remembrance of the sounds that had poured from your lips, the way your hand had delved underneath your smock to disappear between your legs, as you had called out his name, his name.

He removes his cloak from his shoulders and drapes the fabric over your body, both in an effort to keep you comfortable, and to prevent his mind from wandering. He could get away with such devious thoughts late at night, but he fears that if he winds himself up now, he might have to relieve himself in broad daylight, and that would not do.

Shame burns through his throat at the very thought, for you are no common prostitute to lust after – no you are a princess, one who has captured the very essence of his soul, and in only a few short days. No, he could not sully you with such impure desires, no matter how strong those desires may be.

He collects an apple or two from the pile and approaches Sam, who has found a small pond of fresh water to hydrate herself by. She perks up at the offering of an apple, and Kylo rolls his eyes.

“She’s spoiled you greatly these past few days, hasn’t she?” He asks his horse, who has now all but come to expect the treat of this fruit.

Sam only nudges Kylo’s hand with her nose and downs the apple quickly, sniffing out the rest he has hidden under his arm. He doesn’t bother trying to refuse her.

The peace of the morning is broken, when suddenly you are running past him, having smacked his arm on your way.

Both he and Sam startle, and Kylo has his sword drawn, has it twirled in his hand for a stronger grip, for surely danger must be imminent. He is reaching for his helmet when you run past him once again, now heading in the opposite direction that you once were.

“Lady (Y/N)! What is the matter, where are you going?” Kylo insists, demands to know, hand already balling into a fist ready to deliver a swift blow to your attacker.

But you only laugh and jump around, and Kylo groans, groans for he does not how many more of these false alarms he can take.

“I have had my time in the sun and now I grow restless! As the children say, tag you’re it.” You taunt him, before gathering your skirt in your hands and running running running away.

“Lady (Y/N) please, come back.” Kylo shouts with too much force, exasperated, has half a mind to be angry at you as he sheaths his sword once more.

You climb atop a rock in the clearing, hands on your hips looking triumphant as you tease.

“Oh are you too slow my dear knight? Perhaps you’d be faster without all of your heavy armor weighing you down – ah!” You take notice of him chasing after you, Kylo’s legs far longer and stronger than your own.

You jump off the rock and your laughter rings through the hills of the clearing, echoes across the tilled land as Kylo snatches you about the waist with ease, hoists you up and over his shoulder like you were no more than a sack of potatoes and spins you around and around.

He does not know when the last time he played was, does not know if he ever has, so he does not know if this is correct, but you are not angry with him when you beat your fists against his back.

“Sir Ren!” You exclaim as he sets you right side up, feet on the floor and no longer kicking wildly from the thrill of being so captured.

Your chest heaves from the excitement but he is barely out of breath, and he wonders how you might fare in another situation, one where your face may flush just as it is now, where he may have his hands on you, around you, in a different manner.

“I think you’ll find I am exactly as fast as I need to be, Lady (Y/N).” He says, and you hum in contemplation, rest your forehead against his, for that is how close you are to one another.

“Call me (Y/N).” You whisper, a teasing smile just toying with the corner of your lips.

“No.” He says, and though he does not smile, he knows you can feel the warmth in his expression, in his eyes.

A moment passes and then he is pulling away from you, running away towards Sam, armor clinking and clanking against itself, as he calls out, “I believe now it is you, who are it, Lady (Y/N).”

He can clearly see disappointment flit across your face for some reason, before it is overcome with joy that he is willing to play along.

* * *

Hours later, when the sun has gone down and you both have eaten every morsel of food you have brought, does Kylo suggest returning to town.

“I do not know how the time escaped us,” You remark as you enter the castle, Kylo’s arm in yours once more, “But I am glad to have spent such a wonderful day with you.”

Kylo wishes he had the words to say he was too, but he was more than glad, he was thrilled – elated, he had never felt this way before, about anyone or anything. He would give anything to you, for you, do anything to make you smile.

“Sir Ren…” You say when you arrive at your door, and for the first time it is you who is shy, you who dips your head low and blushes, “I feel as though I must confess something. I fear that you mistake my affections for jest, for only a friendly nature. Please know this is not the case, I…I care for you deeply.” You admit, and Kylo feels as though he may black out.

All of it, all of it has been true this entire time. He does not know what to do, what to say, for his mind is reeling, heart beating so fast, so hard in his chest he thinks he is going to die, going to just have a heart attack.

You mistake his silence for rejection, he can see it in your eyes and he begins to panic.

“I beg your pardon, it was never my intention to make you uncomfortable. Good night.” You are mortified, and you turn towards your door, shaking hand trying to get the lock turned with the great big key you carry.

He rushes to stop your hand, rushes to heal this pain he has caused you, for that is not the case, never has been the case.

“You do not.” He says, says so quickly that he isn’t sure if the words are coherent.

“I’m sorry?” You ask, and fuck there are tears in your eyes, and his heart sinks. He grasps your hand between his own, brings the fingertips to his lips, an echo of a gesture you had bestowed upon him those days ago at the brook.

“You do not make me uncomfortable, with your advances.” He shakes his head, tries to convey the depth of his feeling, how it is very much the opposite.

“You mean to say…?” You whisper with wide eyes, and Kylo nods.

“Good night.” He says, but he says so with such fondness that you grin, that you hug him tightly, arms around him in an embrace.

You slip behind the door to your bedchambers, but this time when you close it, you keep your eye trained on his the whole time, stealing a glance until the very moment the door is shut.

Hours pass, and it is dark. The night is clear, only the gentle pattering of rain sounds around him, nothing quite so tumultuous as a thunder storm.

“Lady (Y/N)?” He sounds surprised, when you turn the heavy metal handle and gently push open the door.

He’s not sure why he’s surprised, why when in the middle of the night like this you aren’t in bed. No, instead you’re wearing only the barest of robes, thick red velvet that drapes and folds off your curves in such a manner that could ensnare the most chaste of men.

Your hair is down and freed from braids, and oh that is a sight, a sight so delicious he has to avert his eyes, has to turn his scarred face elsewhere, for he is unworthy to feast his eyes on you.

You disagree, reach a hand out to rest on his armor, for he still has not taken it off, of course not, not when at any moment he might need it. Your hand slides up his forearm, over his bicep, up to his face, to his cheek, and you are not wearing gloves – this he can tell, even in the dark.

“How many times must I tell you to simply call me, (Y/N)?” You ask, and this makes him bite the inside of his cheek, because this is the fifth time. He’s been counting, keeps track, he likes keeping track of you, likes that you have these inside humors to share.

You tilt his gaze back towards you and the pale light from the moon makes your skin glow. He’s not so sure he isn’t ensnared, not when you smooth your thumb over his marred flesh, not when you smile at him so softly.

He captures your hand in his own, filled with regret at the leather encasing his fingers. He turns his cheek slightly to kiss your palm, gently, ever so gently. He doesn’t want to harm you, not when he is capable of so much.

“As many times as you must, for I’ll never regard you as anything less than a Lady.” He says and even though the night is high and the visibility is low, he knows, he knows you are blushing.

“Won’t you come inside?” You ask, and he permits a soft huff of air that may be passable as a laugh.

“No, I’m to stand watch all night.” He replies, for this you know, he had stood guard of your bedroom every night for nearly two weeks.

This was not the first night you had been so bold, but his barriers have been broken down, he can feel in his heart how exceptionally lovely you are, how he desperately wishes to give you what you want. But as stubborn as you could be, so could he, and he aims to make you work for it.

“You couldn’t possibly, not all night. When would you sleep? A man needs his sleep.” You argue, and Kylo hums thoughtfully, playfully.

“No more than a Lady needs her protection.” He counters, making you bite at your lip in a grin that shows all of your pretty teeth, a luxury that Kylo is self-conscious of for himself.

“And what are you protecting me from, Sir Ren?” You ask, withdrawing your hand so you may cross it over your chest with the other, leaning against the doorframe looking entirely too beautiful.

“Anything. Everything.” He is lost in the sight of you, and thinks that yes, you are a woman he could fight for, would kill for. It seems silly in retrospect now, considering, but you had the face that would win a million wars, just call you Helen.

“You cannot protect me from everything, not out there.” You tsk, a playful glint in your eye, and Kylo was eager for another battle of wits, for they were such fun when they were with you – even though he would never admit it.

“Oh? And what, pray tell can I not prevent from here?” He asks, an eyebrow raised.

You hum to yourself for a moment, before he shocks you by opening his arms and collecting you in them, pulling you close. He could chuckle at the width of your eyes as you realize you’ve won this round, won this war. Still, he likes to be difficult and though he has you pressed against his black armor, he leans his head away so he might look upon your face, so you might be just out of reach of his lips.

“The chill of the room as it washes over my skin.” You say, licking your own, looking up at him through thick lashes.

“You should warm your skin by the fire, then.” He suggests, knowing all too well there is an ember glowing near your very bed.

“Hmm, the bandits that might climb through my window.” You offer, but he simply shrugs.

“Lock the window, then.” He allows a finger to curl under your chin, to lift your face up up up, watches as your eyes slip closed, as you breathe in the smell of his leather and polish.

“The plague of my nightmares.” You whisper, and Kylo’s lip quirks a smile, the first smile he’s let you seen, the first smile he’s let anyone see in many years.

“Pray for sweet dreams.” He says simply, as he lets himself lean down barely, just a tad, just a hint, enough that his warm breath ghosts across your mouth.

“The yearning ache in my lips?” You ask, and this, this he will grant you, because he can save you from this.

“Kiss me.” He allows, and you do, oh, you do.

His lips yield to yours, and the press is heavenly when your sweet smile sighs against him. He breathes you in, forgetting himself, forgetting his duty, and he allows his tongue to slide against yours.

When you moan into his mouth he decides he cannot wait any longer, will not wait any longer, and he cautiously walks you backwards into the room, door shutting behind you, sealing out the world beyond. 

Your bedroom is just as he remembers it, from that day where he caught you pleasuring yourself, and something inside him is thrilled that this time, this time it will be he who pleasures you. The room is dark and warm, nothing but the light of the moon and the small embers of the fire to light the area.

You allow the red velvet robe to fall from your shoulders, and a bead of sweat trickles down the back of Kylo’s neck, as he is allowed to look at you, as he is graced with the opportunity to really look at you. You are naked before him, arms relaxed at your side as the velvet catches around your wrists on its descent to the floor. There is enough light to see, to see how gorgeous you are, the way your hair cascades down your back, the way your pulse jumps in your throat, the way your nipples stiffen at the sudden exposure to the air.

He does not move, does not dare to move, not even as his trousers become impossibly tight around his crotch, as he desperately wants to shift his weight so he might have some friction on his cock.

“Let me help you?” You whisper, sensing his mild distress, sensing his desperation for you, but he shakes his head, gloved fingers already swiftly undoing the clasps and buckles that hold on his breastplate, heavy metal resting atop black chainmail.

“I can do it.” He says, grateful for the chance to breathe, the routine of removing his armor almost meditative, until your hand comes to rest atop his own.

“I know you can.” You say, as you lean up to kiss him, as you press your naked body against his which is entirely clothed, his which is clad in steel, steel that smudges as your sweat and the oils from your skin rub against them.

He kisses you slowly, the slide of his tongue against yours something which is more intoxicating than the most fragrant wine. He refuses to part from you as he removes the rest of his armor, piece by piece, as quickly as he can – not hurriedly, not rushing, but efficiently. Your hands join in helping lift the mail over his head, and you let out a surprised huff when you realize just how heavy it is.

He smirks, pleased that you are impressed.

You break the kiss to admire him, all of him, and he stands proudly before you as naked as you are before him. Your eyes are glued to his cock, which hangs heavy and thick between his legs, and you reach a hand out to grasp his, to lead him to your bed.

You lay down and Kylo follows, settles himself between your open legs, and he cannot stop looking looking looking at you, at the curve of your breasts, at the soft plush flesh of your stomach, the way your thighs part for him, hair between your legs that frame your pussy so beautifully. In the firelight he can see the way you glisten, all over, from the sweat on your chest to the slick that collects in your cunt.

“You are so lovely, a dream. I must be dreaming.” He whispers, and you blush, suddenly shy – shy after all this time spent flirting.

“Do these not feel real?” You ask, and he licks his lips as you guide his hands to your breasts, and he cannot stop them from shaking as they cup your tits, as his fingers splay across them.

He kneads them in his hands, pinches and rolls your nipples between his thumb and forefinger in a way that makes you gasp into his mouth when he swallows it up in a kiss. You remove one of his hands from your chest and instead guide it down between your legs.

“How about this?” You ask, hand holding his wrist steady.

His breathing quickens when your hips rise to meet his fingers as they curl inside you, and he is shocked to feel how hot you are, how wet. He acts on instinct, pushes them as deep inside you as they can go, just his two fingers, but he is bewitched by the feeling of it. You tip your head back and moan, and Kylo is afraid he is going to begin to drool, drunk off the sound.

His cock strains against your thigh, and he wants nothing more than to sink it deep inside you, but he must be honest with himself, with you.

“I – ” His voice is hoarse, and he clears it, tries to clear his head as he pumps his fingers slowly in and out of you, as he elicits more moans and gasps from your lips, moans that sound just the same as the ones he listened to when he interrupted you in a similar position as this, “I have but only heard, of the wonders of a woman’s body.”

He is shy, and his face burns with embarrassment at the admission, but he does not wish you to think he is more experienced than he is, does not wish you to be disappointed. Thankfully, you do not seem deterred, for you do not kick him out of your bedchambers in disgrace, nor do you laugh at him, nor do you do much of anything beside cup his cheek and pull his forehead down to rest against yours.

“The only experience I have is with myself, but this you already know.” You whisper, and relief floods through him as he removes his fingers from your cunt.

He laves his tongue over them, licks up your juices and moans at the taste, for you truly are like honey in his hands, on his lips. He in turn kisses you, because he cannot get enough of that, of this, of you.

“You must tell me what you like.” He says when his cock begins to throb and ache in a manner which he can ignore no longer. He abandons your breast which he has been holding, and instead uses that hand to support his weight while he rubs the head of his cock through your folds with his other.

You nod, and soon the sliding back and forth gives way to penetration, as he positions himself to push into you, hips pressing in short thrusts until they are flush against yours.

“Oh – oh.” You moan, your back arched up into him, and now that he is inside you he caresses your lower back, kisses you as his thrusts grow more bold.

He feels your legs wind around his hips, and lets out a deep groan of pleasure as you do something, something to squeeze your cunt around his cock, and his hips buck into you with more force.

“Yes! Harder? Harder, I beg of you.” You cry out, hands flying to his back, nails digging into the strong meat of his shoulders then.

He nods, buries his face into your neck as he thrusts with more and more force, until the bed is squeaking and shaking, until your mouth is unable to close, hot breath coming in short pants that he breathes in, that makes him dizzy.

You are exquisite around him, and he knows that this wait has been worth it, that this victory is one he shall savor forever, the trust that you have placed in him, the desire that you have for him, both evident in the way you are lavishing wet kisses to his neck, the way you mark his back, the way you clench your pussy and push your hips into him.

“I’m going to – ” You choke off a moan, and he knows this means you must be close, and anticipation builds in his chest. While he has seen you come once before, never has he felt it, experienced it like this.

He can feel your stiff nipples rubbing against his chest, and you’re whining, gasping. You blindly reach for his hand and he gives it to you willingly as his hips push you up and up the bed. He does not know what you aim to do until all at once it is clear – you guide his hand back to your cunt and press his finger down onto your clit, a command that he would rather die than disobey.

“Sir Ren, yes!” You shout out, not caring if you woke the whole castle, and Kylo feels your orgasm hit him like a waterfall.

He rubs your clit, harsh circles that paired with the force of his cock leave you crying, and Kylo is worried that he has hurt you somehow but when he peeks a glance at your face from where he has made a home in your throat, he finds nothing but what could only be described as ecstasy.

It is that face, the feeling of your hot body beneath his, around his, completely consuming his, that makes him grunt and groan, makes him sweat and shake as he can feel his orgasm rip through him.

It blinds him, and he doubles over, arm which has supported him this whole time finally giving out, as he collapses onto your chest. He can feel it, swears he can feel his come spreading inside you, the throb of his cock as it releases all of his spend into your tight cunt. Your arms are weak from your own pleasure but you smooth your hands up his back, and he rolls his hips with a groan to milk himself for what he’s worth.

He does not know what that may be, but he gives it to you, gives every single drop to you. Your thighs and stomach are fluttering underneath him, chest rising and falling with breath that tries to regulate itself, and he cannot stop the prick of hot tears from slipping down his nose, from collecting on your chest.

He is so overwhelmed, so in love with you, that he cannot bear it, cannot believe how lucky he is for you to grace him with this gift. You have the largest smile on your face, chin pinched up in happy tears of your own, and Kylo knows he has done well. He thinks he has done well, hopes he has, for he isn’t sure he could live without this, now that he has tasted it, has had a sample of your body.

But you are smiling and you comb your fingers through his hair as he kisses you, his body heavy on your own, his cock still inside you, and he has no strength in him to hold back a great big smile of his own.


	7. Chapter 7

While you sleep, the world turns. War ravages on and on in neighboring countries and places all over the globe. There is death, a pestilence creeping up on villages, numbers tallying far too much, too wide. The beat of drums sound for all occasion, and mourners wear their colors black. The world turns.

And yet.

Yet you sleep, and you sleep peacefully. You dream of bitten cherries and split apples, dream of plush lips and open mouthed gasps, of sticky sweet sweat sliding between bodies – your bodies, yours and Sir Ren’s.

You sleep, but you find you cannot sleep for long, too giddy to remain in the realm of dreams, far too eager to hold your eyes shut for another moment. So you wake, and oh, what a sight it is to which you wake.

Sir Ren is resting, deeply, truly, soundly resting the first time you had ever seen. In ten days of acquaintance – and by God had it only been ten days? – his lashes kiss the tops of his cheekbones, his chest rises and falls under your cheek, and he snores. The most gentle of snores, light snores, snores of a man who lived a life where he dare not make more noise than necessary, dare not sleep too deeply.

But he is sleeping deeply with you, under you, for you wake to your head on his chest, wake to your ear placed just over the beating of his heart, and you cannot wipe the smile from your lips when you remember how this came to be.

Sunlight pours in through the window on the hall, and it is this sunlight which illuminates his skin so nicely, his hair, warms him. He is not shy, in sleep. He has one arm wrapped around your waist, the other tucked underneath his head, proud bicep on display. There is a mark of beauty, just there on his bicep, and you strain to place a gentle kiss upon it, careful so that you may not wake him.

You know not when the last chance he had to sleep this much was, you do not dare take this from him now.

Instead you keep your breathing as even as possible, a trick to make him think you too still sleep, even as you remove your hands from underneath his back where it has wedged between his body and the mattress. You lift one hand, and with the very tip of your finger, you trace his features. Your touch is featherlight, practically hovering over him, the strong bridge of his nose.

You trace the closed lids of his eyes, watch as the irises move this way and that underneath the skin. You hope he is having good dreams, he deserves them. You feel as though he deserves the world. Your fingers continue their exploration of him, following the long scar that twists his mouth into a scowl, following it down down down his throat, over his collarbone, to his shoulder where it disappears.

Your stomach tightens at the fury that rises, the thought that someone would dare harm him. You know that a great many people have harmed him, in more ways than one, and you bite back the sorrow, for now he is with you, has found you.

He shifts under your touch, arms winding around you, protective. He was such a protector, you smile to yourself, even in sleep. But his face is pinching together as he stretches, and he is blinking against the sunlight, and you hum a happy sound as one of his hands smooths up your bare back to cup your skull where it rests against him, to pet through your hair.

It is a tender gesture, one that he does with hesitance, as if he had never done it before. A jealous part of you wishes this is the case, for you are so pleased to be his first in all things gentle.

“Good morning.” You whisper, the first words of the day ringing more true than they ever have, more true than you ever have meant.

“Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined someone as lovely as you.” He says, eyes molten and brimming with affection. He pulls you up his body gently, encourages you to shift so you may be atop him fully as he cups your cheeks in his hands, big and strong and warm from sleep as he kisses your eyelids.

“It is a good thing that you are wide awake, then.” You reply, turning in his grasp to kiss his palms, and he grins, a full, beautiful smile that shows off all of his handsomely crooked teeth, a smile which crinkles his nose and eyes, a smile which has the whole world stopped outside.

By God, you think, he is so handsome – you are smitten with him, with his _dimples._

“I do not believe you, pinch me.” He jests, but you do anyway, reach out a couple fingers and pinch at the strong muscle of his ribs as you lean away from his lips, opting instead to straddle him.

Oh how princely he looks, you think, from your view above him. The canopy curtains flutter in the slight breeze of the room which comes from the pleasant weather. His hair is splayed across your pillow, and he is surrounded by feathers which float gently in the air – feathers from the mattress which has split open as a result of the love making you two so vigorously enjoyed. You pick one such feather from behind his ear where it has settled, use it to tickle his nose.

He blows it away, his hands creeping up your stomach to cup your breasts. You watch him with an amused smile, as he supports your chest with his palms, not willing to let them go.

“I have made you something, a token, a favor.” You say, leaning over to your bedside table, a beautiful wooden thing with only a single drawer. “I hope you will wear it during the joust, when your two weeks have arrived.”

Out from the table you pull the ribbon which you have embroidered, have spent the past few days stealing a stitch or two or twenty, embroidery you have done by the candle light in your room when Sir Ren stands guard outside. It is a long strip of white silk, which you hope will contrast against the inky blackness of his armor when he puts it on.

At the spot where it will be most visible on his arm, you have detailed your monogram, in red and black threads, just your initials. But you have a secret, for you have poured all your love into these stitches, and have blessed them with prayers and charms and chants, imbued them with all the strength and protection you have within you so that he might be safe when he wears this, this favor.

Sir Ren sits up in bed, the wooden frame protesting only slightly, but neither of you pay it any mind. He carefully carefully carefully accepts it, like it is something precious, sacred, holy. The awe in his eyes tell you that perhaps to him, it is. Your chest warms, fondness and love blooming ever brighter for your guard.

“They will have to saw off my entire arm to remove it.” He says, gently placing it on the table once more so he might embrace you, might tuck your face into his neck and hold you so so so tight, might tremble around you from the force of his adoration.

“You will make a fine king.” You whisper with such vehemence into his neck, your hands clasping together around his shoulders, that you feel a short, self deprecating laugh huff out from the man.

“You put so much confidence in me, all the time.” He murmurs, only tightening his embrace, his hold on you.

“Yes, I do, and you cannot let me down now, for I will be immensely disappointed.” You grin, ever playful, ever wanting him to be in nothing but the best of moods.

He pulls away enough so that he may look upon you, your naked body, and you let him have as much of an eyeful as he wants. You stretch yourself out, facing him on his lap, leaning back and bracing yourself on his strong thighs, letting the sun illuminate you in the same manner which it did him.

He copies your movements from earlier, allows a hand to trace over the features of your face, hand shaking ever so slightly.

“I so long to kiss you.” He says, so soft, so quiet in the morning light.

You blush, pleased he is finally asking for what he wants, what he has wanted for so long, what you have been desperate for for ages. You tuck his hair behind his ears, and this time he does not shake it away, this time he does not hide behind himself, he only bites at his lip while staring at yours.

“You need not ask.” You say, and it is like magic the way he moves.

He rolls you underneath him, cages you between his arms, huge muscles doing so little effort to hold him up as he supports himself above you. When he leans down to kiss you, when he presses his lips against yours, when you part your legs so he may settle between them, you sigh – for what greater bliss is this?

“When you were with Snoke, what were you like?” You ask, reaching a hand down between your bodies to grasp at his cock, pleased to find it filling out rapidly, growing harder and harder in your hand as you stroke him off.

“What do you mean?” He asks, caught off guard, frowning, confused you would ask such a thing in a moment like this.

“I mean, were you a cruel man, a dictator? Slaughtering innocents, men women and children?” You ask breathlessly, positioning him against you, your heel encouraging him to push inside.

When he does, you moan, exhale a great big breath. He grunts, pushes further inside you, your legs lifting and hips tilting to accommodate him, his great size. He was so great in size in fact, that you cannot prevent yourself from wincing just slightly. Perhaps it was a mistake for him to fuck you with virtually no preparations, but you soon find yourself growing slick, wet wet wet for him, and the slide becomes easier.

“Yes.” Sir Ren nods, the most incredible blush splotching down his chest as he begins to thrust.

“Did they deserve it?” You ask, head tipped back, remembering the day in the wood, how he had been so ruthless, so merciless, so absolutely severe. The memory of him so unhinged goes straight through to your stomach, to your cunt, and you clench around him.

“_Yes_.” Sir Ren moans as he moves to grip your thighs tight, to become harder, faster, to fuck you with more vigor.

This was not a slow and sweet affair, this was a hard brutal pace that tore moans and gasps from your throat, this was a bruising pace which you would only revel in later, would only encourage. You encourage him now, unable to withhold your shouts of pleasure, for oh how he pleasured you so well.

“Yes!” You grin, you gasp, you groan, but Sir Ren only grips a hold of your jaw in one massive hand, tilts your head to look at him, and you are so close that it is not a challenge to look at him – but it is a challenge to keep your eyes open when his cock is doing its best to make you scream.

“Do you not hate me?” He asks, and you frown, shake your head as best you can within his grasp.

“Why should I?” You ask, moaning moaning moaning, as he pins you and bites you and fucks you.

“Because I just told you I am an evil man.” He says, and you laugh, because there are no such thing as evil men, only those with different reasons.

“You are not evil to me.” You say, because he is not, truly is not, has never once been. “When you rule Alderaan, will you be rutheless?” You demand to know, and Sir Ren looks you in the eye with all the sincerity he can.

“If I need to be.” He says, and this, this is the sign of a true king, and you dig your nails into his lower back as you pull him as flush to your body as you can, pleased, so pleased with him, with his answers.

You push him back, push him underneath you once more, in a position that is all sinful as hell. All of this was sinful, you thought with a sick glee, all of it was prohibited – so what was to stop you from doing what you wanted? You had heard of the pleasure that could be gained from ways other than missionary, and you were more than eager to try them out for yourself.

As you rock your hips above him, you get a fine view of your knight, of the way his face clenches tight in pleasure of his own.

“I – ” He gasps but you shake your head, for you are so close, so so close, drunk off the feeling of him, the promise that he might crush your enemies, the promise that he will remain soft to you despite it all.

He feels incredible inside you, the very head of his cock as far deep as it can do, pressing against you in a manner that’s almost painful. You rub your hand on your lower stomach, and you swear you can feel it, you can _feel _him, feel the ridge of his cock inside you.

“Just a moment longer.” You command, and he listens, he does as you say, his hands have such a tight grip on your hips in order to keep you in place, to prevent him from slipping out.

It is devilishly good, the way that this feels, and now you know why the Church forbids it.

Well, you think, you are bound to no church of these lands, and when your orgasm begins to crest you clamp your cunt hard down around his cock.

“Oh!” Sir Ren’s eyes fly open, and the sweet man, sweet and caring, he knows what to do to help you push over that edge, he licks his thumb and wets it well, rolls it on your clit as he sits up, takes one of your nipples into his mouth and gives a good hard suck.

“Yes – yes, please, yes!” You babble, lost, so lost, drowning in pleasure as white hot sparks shoot up your spine.

You feel it when he comes, can feel it spreading through you. It makes you anxious, thrills you in the best of ways, for there is no saying what could come of this – no saying who might come from this.

Sir Ren seems to know it too, and he is out of breath, panting, groaning from pleasure, trembling as his own orgasm shoots through him just as his come shoots through you. You roll your hips on top of his to make it last a little longer, make it a little sweeter, until he is rolling you both onto your sides so he can fuck you through it.

The sound your bodies make when he forces his come so deep inside you is intoxicating, the sticky squelch of it almost sickening, if it were not so good. He does not pull away, not for a long while, instead content to simply look at you, eyes hazy and clouded from simple bliss, ecstasy.

Sir Ren cleans you first with his tongue, lapping up all your come and licking the sweat and spit from your body in the most intimate of acts. Whatever has spilled from your pussy gets steadily pumped back in with sure fingers, and your breath hitches for surely he is aware of the consequences of such an act.

He is, and he remarks you with fondness, with love, so much so that you find yourselves kissing kissing kissing once more, kissing so much that you fear your lips may chap, a thought which only leads you to smile against his mouth. He hums at you, and his voice is so luscious and deep deep deep in his chest, as it rumbles into your body through your joined lips.

After what seems like an age and a half, you both cleanse yourselves properly with a striped linen towel which rests near the basin of perfumed oiled water. It is an act of worship you both exchange, equally and utterly devoted to the other.

* * *

“You are in fine spirits this morning, Lady (Y/N).” Queen Leia regards you once you and Sir Ren have dressed and made yourselves known to the great hall for breakfast.

You know she speaks at you with condescending tones, patronizing humors, but you breeze past it happily, for though she may be sarcastic, there is no denying the words she says.

“I am indeed!” You cannot stop smiling as you reach for the many foods laid out for you on the high table as Sir Ren takes his spot standing directly behind your chair. “Please, forgive my behavior these past few days. I know it is no excuse, but you must imagine how difficult this has been for me, hoping to come here for safety and instead being a pawn in a game of chess.”

“You mean to say you have not changed your mind?” Queen Leia asks with a frown, and you chuckle, for how and why on earth did she think you would?

“I have not.” You inform her as you spread butter upon your bread, offering it up to Sir Ren to satisfy some of his hunger instead of your own, “Only love will ensnare me into such a union, I do apologize for anything I have done to raise your hopes.” You say, and though Sir Ren is as stoic as possible now that he is outside the confines of your bedchambers, still there is the very barest hint of a smile on his mouth when he chews the bread you have torn for him.

“I am disappointed, both in your feelings towards my ward, and your feelings towards my son.” Queen Leia sighs, angrily stabbing a grape with her knife.

“You need not be disappointed; they are not feelings you are responsible for.” You shrug easily, enraging the woman though you do not care, “Your son has been the most incredible companion, I do not know what I might have been without him.”

“You speak so strongly for someone who knows so little about him.” She seethes, but you simply regard her with an even manner.

“If I may be so bold, I believe I know more about him than you do, your Majesty.” You point out, not breaking eye contact with her as you give Sir Ren an apple, which he swiftly rips in two. He places a half in your waiting hand, and it is with a slight pettiness that you so obviously relish the taste. 

“What has he offered you, for you to fall so indebted to him, so defensive of him? When you know what he has done to my family?” Sir Dameron finally speaks, and you do your best not to sigh too heavily, growing weary from the same conversation over and over.

If only they could see him the way you did.

“He has offered me nothing but his affections, and I have accepted them eagerly.” You reply.

“Yes, I believe the whole of the castle can attest to that.” Bishop Luke mutters into his goblet, making his sister choke on her oats and honey.

You must bury your face inside a goblet of your own, for your grin hits so immediately that you feel it nearly inappropriate.

Good you think as you hydrate yourself with fresh clean water, let them have heard, let them all have heard – let God in heaven have cast her blessings down upon you and your knight. Such a union was not to be tarnished, not now, not ever.

“Why does he not speak?” Queen Leia asks, fist clenched around her spoon.

“Pray tell what should he have to say? Especially to such a mother.” You remark. Sir Ren was a quiet man – even engaged in the throes of passion he was ultimately silent, save for grunts and groans low in your ear.

Queen Leia is not pleased with you, not one bit, and it seems as though this is the final straw which has broken the camel’s back.

“He is lucky I do not sick the castle guards upon his very hide!” She slams her cutlery down, red faced and shouting, shouting so loud that it carries through the great hall, through the castle walls, “He should be begging for my forgiveness, for redemption! He should be swinging from the tallest of trees for all to see what happens to traitors of my kingdom! If it were not for your contract with him or the duel with my ward, he should be dragged through the streets and quartered in the town square for the crimes he has committed – and you claim _I _am to be ashamed? How dare you.”

You are swift to stand and challenge her, for she is not so saintly, not nearly as Good as she postulates.

“Ah but I _did_ make a contract with him, the very contract which has kept me alive in your god forsaken land, where bandits and robbers run amok, where the poor scavenge for food among the rubbish, where monarchs are too busy to show their face to the people – instead content to lie and manipulate and isolate their wards into marriages that might bring them political advantage during a war they are too cowardly to truly fight. You hide behind your stone walls while your people and friends suffer, you are no better than the men you spit upon, your Majesty.” You deliver your speech with an even tone, not giving her the satisfaction of growing so frustrated, despite how desperately you wish for a duel of your own.

If only Ladies engaged in such behavior, you think with a fiery stare.

This time, it is her turn to storm away, to gather her skirts and her fine fabrics and flee the room.

The time, it is her turn to have all eyes watching as her beet red face burns.

This time, it is you which reigns victorious, in this battle of breakfast.

It takes a few moments before conversation strikes up once again, and when it does, it is the fair Gwendoline who starts it.

“Has there…been any word from the war?” She asks, pleased as punch for you, and you give her a knowing smile even though the answer is not so pleasant.

“No, unfortunately not. I doubt my most recent correspondence with my father has yet to even reach him.” You explain, for things take time in normal circumstances, you can’t imagine the sort of obstacles the messengers must face when trebuchets are involved.

“English savages, I cannot comprehend the desire to fight the French when there are still wars to be won in their own dominion. Hopefully when you hear from him next, it will be news of victory.” Gwendoline says, and you appreciate her enthusiasm greatly.

Sir Dameron looks to you with genuine curiosity from across the table, something which startles you considering you had just told off his adoptive mother, and queen.

“What shall you do, Lady (Y/N), when the war is over?” He asks, and this is a question you find yourself not prepared for.

You sit back in your chair and mull it over for a moment, thinking, for now that you have met Sir Ren, everything is different.

“Well I suppose that depends greatly on the outcome, does it not?” You say, for this is true.

“Let’s say if you win.” Sir Dameron suggests, and you are pleased to hear this as the first and most likely suggestion.

“If we win then I should like to return home, I think. Be with my people, celebrate our victory.” You reply, although it feels like a political answer, a princesses’ answer.

“And if you lose?” He asks, but you simply tsk your teeth and shake your head.

“Let us not tempt God with such notions, shall we?” You ask playfully, when thankfully, a man climbs the few steps to the high table with a hefty jug.

“Would you care for some wine my lady?” The man asks, and you assume him to be a servant, for he is dressed as one of the many that you met on your tour of the castle in a time which feels both so long ago, and only last week all at once.

You are nearly about to agree, when Sir Ren leans down, speaks so only you may hear.

“Let me taste it for you.” He commands, and you turn your head over your shoulder to face him, seeing nothing but wicked anger in his eyes.

“Why?” You whisper, and he clenches his jaw, hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“They have slipped something inside the vessel.” He whispers in return and your heart begins to beat.

Rose, the woman from the village, she did say the Queen’s loyalists were a rebellious bunch. Perhaps this was the beginning of a rebellion, right here, right now.

“If they have poisoned my drink I would not let you have some.” You insist quietly, before turning back around to face this man who now shakes and sweats in his shoes, for he knows that he has been found out. You raise your voice when speaking to him, shaking your head, “I would prefer the ale, if I may.”

“The ale?” The man stammers, and you raise a brow.

“Yes, why is there something – ”

“No!” The man cuts you off, and before anyone can do anything, the jug of wine has crashed to the floor.

Sir Ren has his sword at the man’s throat, pointed blade sharp and true, aimed directly for his jugular. He has pulled your whole chair back so he may stand in front of you, and he towers over this servant, this coward.

“Do not. Interrupt her.” He says, and the entire hall is frozen in shock as he does not remove his sword, does not stand down. In fact, he presses it with wicked strength deeper and deeper until the blade is slicing just through the very top layers of the man’s skin, until he is wincing and trembling and bleeding. Not enough to do any real harm, not unless you wish it.

You hum to yourself, butter another crust of bread, take a bite and chew it, all the while this man bleeds before you.

“It’s alright Sir Ren, he didn’t mean it. Did you?” You decide upon finally, asking with false sweetness in your voice.

The man would fall to the ground begging if he were not so pinned by Sir Ren’s sword, but he does begin to sob, to plead.

“I’ll – I’ll take the wine away your highness – I swear I didn’t mean to – ” He blubbers, and you grace him with a soothing hand to calm his brow.

“I am merciful, but do not cross me again.” You say with a smile as Sir Ren sheathes his sword once more. The man falls to your feet, places kisses to your shoes, but you simply pat his back, a cue for him to scramble away.

“I want that man hanged.” Sir Ren says low in your ear, fuming, teeth clenched, fist white-knuckled as you pry his hand open and twine your fingers with his own.

“And you shall have it, once you are king.” You say softly, as the two of you, as the whole hall, watches the man run away.

* * *

With no other plans, other than perhaps Sir Ren training once again later in the afternoon, you and he find yourselves in bed once more. For what better way was there to spend a morning, than lounging about, engaged in one another’s company?

“You very well may have saved my life this morning, for the second time. I am forever indebted to you.” You say, sandwiching his palm between your own for the third time, placing your forehead against his so that somehow, somehow your thoughts may travel directly to his brain.

He tucks your hair behind your ears, pinches and tugs at your earlobes with the softest, most beautiful affection. You did not know how such small gestures could hold so much love, and yet.

Sir Ren is truly an enigma, one you are truly honored to behold.

“I require no such payments.” He says with a shake of his head.

He is in your bed, without his armor. He had taken it off after breakfast, and you find that you enjoy him like this more and more. Why must modesty cover up such gorgeous skin, such a capable body? He is naked, and you are naked, though he does not embrace you in the typical way.

Between you are a deck of playing cards, and though he is very good, you are better at matching like suits and values together. You glance at him coyly over the top of your hand, blush at him.

“Oh but Sir Ren, I could not give you nothing. Surely there must be something.” You play, licking your lips though he cannot see.

He glances from his cards to meet your eyes, and you can see the smile there. He sets his cards down too, joins yours in the small pile between your bodies, and allows himself to rake his eyes over your chest, your stomach, the supple flesh of your thighs as you sit before him.

“Upon a second thought, there is one thing I would deem most acceptable.” He says, slowly crawls his way over to you, and when you lay back against the pillows, he follows.

“Pray tell, what might that be?” You ask, hands carding through his hair as you arrange your legs to accommodate him, more than eager for a second fucking if he is so willing to give you one.

“A kiss from the lips of a fair maiden.” He asks for instead, and you blush, for he is so sweet, so charming, and he knows it. Little by little, he is starting to know it.

“Only one?” You ask, for he may have as many as he would like, whenever he would like, you have told him this.

“I dare not believe myself worthy of more.” He says, although something in his tone is too playful to be entirely self-conscious, and you are suspicious of his intentions in the most thrilling of ways.

“Allow me to prove you wrong then. Where are you going?” You ask when he begins to kiss down your body, and you are confused, for your mouth is decidedly up on your face.

“I did not specify which lips, Lady (Y/N).” His eyes glimmer and shine with mirth.

“Call me – oh!” You are cut off by a moan, for he has licked a broad stripe up your cunt, the most unexpected of places.

He noses inside you, holds your pelvis down with the firm press of his hands as your kneels box around his head. From your position you cannot see anything more than a mop of thick black hair, but the sensations are incredible. It is like he is making out with your pussy, the way he is sucking and prodding and touching you with those divine lips.

His tongue is so long, and he thrusts it inside you, as far as it will go. What a muscle, you think as you moan, the tongue.

“Sir Ren!” You gasp, a hand flying to his head, holding him steady.

He chuckles against you, drinks you down, he is desperate for you, and you are in no mood to stop him, not even as playing cards stick to your back, your thighs.

You shake and moan around his tongue, and you do not last long, not nearly as long as you would like. The pleasure is so different, such a different kind of sex, that you do not know what to expect, and you do not hold yourself back.

Neither, you are pleased to find, does Sir Ren – for a man with no experience, he is attuned to your body so well. You only wonder what other wonders there may be, what other feelings he can elicit from your nerves.

Your grip on his hair is strong and when you come down his throat it is obscene, it is so wet, so slippery, so intense. He only holds you down as your hips buck up, for as delicious as this is, you need more, need more friction to truly be satisfied. You need to be filled to the brim with come of his own, and you need it now.

“Will you really return home?” Sir Ren asks, and your head is foggy, but you can register the true fear in his voice.

You bring a weak hand to his face, to wipe up the come on his chin. He takes hold of your wrist and makes you feed him your come, and your heart hurts at the thought of ever leaving him.

“I don’t think I know where that is any longer.” You admit, a much truer statement than your political announcement at the breakfast table.

“What do you mean?” He asks with a frown, which you find odd, for surely, surely he must know the feeling, having been on the run for so long.

He rests his head on your stomach, splays a hand across your lower belly, the same place where he shot his load inside you. He presses on it lightly, rubs soothing circles there, as if he is willing something to fruition. You comb your fingers through his hair, for it is truly an addicting sensation, the silky smooth locks under your nails, and you sigh.

“I was born to Poland, yes, but have spent so much time living elsewhere, always on the move. In Hungary, Germany, France, back and forth between them – and now Alderaan. I don’t have a home, I’m afraid, just a place to rest my head at the end of a long day.” You say, and Sir Ren looks up at you with those big brown eyes, and kisses the flesh of your stomach.

“This could be your home.” He whispers, whispers as if he is nervous, anxiety swimming in his face, “Here, with me.”

“Would you have me?” You ask, and he reaches underneath your body for something.

He pulls out from under you a queen of hearts card, and rests it on your sternum. You grin, for he is so sentimental, truly.

“You gave me a gift, would you permit me to bestow one upon you?” He asks, licks his lips.

“I would never deny any request you make.” You reply simply, because it is true, it is always true. You will tell him that a thousand times if you must, for no request would ever be too far out of reach.

He goes still for a moment before groaning, before letting his forehead hit your lower stomach in a way that has you laughing at the dramatics of it all.

“I’m afraid I don’t have it on me, but it will just take a moment to fetch. Sam has been keeping it safe, guarding it.” Sir Ren says, and you nod, laughing once more at how quickly he moves now that you have given him permission.

He wipes himself down of sweat and your come with the same towel as earlier, and he dresses lightly, only wearing his black tunic and surcoat, the thick padding meant to protect his skin from the armor which he forgoes.

“Make haste, for I don’t know if I can bear to be apart from you for long.” You smile, and he nods, rushes back to the bedside just to place an eager kiss to your lips, a hard one, filled with passion, before he disappears from the room with a grin.

You wonder what it could possibly be – don’t dare to hope for any one thing.

But you feel as though you know, you feel as though of course you know what it could be, and you cannot prevent your heart from beating ever quicker at the idea of it.

You simply dress in your smock, for now that Sir Ren is gone, there is a chill over your body.

You don’t bother putting on any more clothes, for you know the moment he returns from the stables, you will be naked once more, underneath or on top of him once more, and you grow weary of taking off so many layers.

You are pulling the fabric over your head when the door to your bedchambers opens, and you laugh, for he really had made haste, hadn’t he?

“My goodness I did not anticipate you being that fast – oh!” The world spins when you turn to face him, and it is not Sir Ren at all.

No, it is the servant, the man from earlier, the man with the gash in his throat. He has a dagger by his side, and you give a hardened stare.

“I took mercy on you.” You frown, but the servant shrugs, tosses the dagger into the air and catches it in a manner well meant to intimidate, to attack.

Unluckily for him, you have a knife as well, as you lunge across the bed to grab the push dagger and wrap your fingers securely around the metal grip.

He does not expect this, but he does give up a good fight, and you meet blade for blade before you punch him in the gut and he doubles over in pain. You brace your hands on his back as you knee into his face, not stopping until you can feel the hot slide of blood through your smock, until you hear the crunching of cartilage as his nose breaks.

Before the man can fall to the floor completely, you flee.

It takes two seconds to realize you are being chased, that this was not one lone man, this was not an act of rebellion for defying the Queen.

You are not given a moment to even scream for help, before a hand clasps around your mouth and a cloth is pressed to your nose.

The last thing you think, is Sir Ren’s name, think it so loudly that you hope, pray that it must reach him somehow.

The world goes black.


	8. Chapter 8

You do not know how much time has passed when you wake up. You do not know where you are, for it is dark. But not the kind of dark to suggest night-time, the kind of dark to instead suggest you are in a dungeon of sorts, a prison. You do not bother to scream, for the more of your senses that return to you, the more the dungeon is most likely.

There is a steady drip of water in the distance, the drip of water against stone. It must be raining then, you think, for you are in no cave; when you move, you find your ankles have been chained, your wrists bound in a similar manner.

You seethe, eyes wide as they try to adjust in the dark. Whoever your captors are, they have not taken you out of your smock, and for this you are grateful.

This is the only thing you are grateful for.

You immediately begin searching for a fault in the iron which shackles your hands and feet, immediately begin bashing them against a stone that protrudes from the wall, that you have felt around for. You try and try to break these bonds, but it is to no avail, and you feel yourself growing angrier and angrier with each attempt.

A door slams open, and white light floods the space as lightning cracks across your vision, makes you shut your eyes from the shock of it. Rain indeed. You do not cower, you do not hide, for you are not weak. But you do wince at the lightning as more and more of it angrily travels the sky, holding a hand up to block it and get a look at your captor.

It is a man with bright red hair, this you can tell. But that is about all from this position, where he is backlit and all you see is a black silhouette.

“Do you know who I am?” The man asks, and the accent is not surprising considering the hair.

He is Irish, accent thick, so thick he may as well speak Gaelic, when he speaks to you.

“No.” You reply, and he snaps for men to haul you to the light of torches that they carry, so you may see.

He is vicious looking, entirely angles and sharp lines. His eyes are a blazing green, but they are cold, icy. His cupids bow is sharp as an arrow, and his cheekbones are hollow, razor polished, as if he wanted his skull to be a weapon when he was through with this earth.

These are features that would stay with a person, you think, if one would be so unfortunate as to behold them.

“I do not know you.” You repeat and the men drop you to the ground, hard. 

“Liar!” He shouts, and this you hate, for you are many things, but not a liar.

“I do not lie!” You shout back, bold, too bold, but you cannot help it, you will not let your reputation be so tarnished. “I recognize not your face nor your colors. You are a mystery to me.”

“Does my voice not give me away?” He circles you, and when you move to stand he places a heavy boot on your back and forces you down to the cold hard stone of your prison.

“I have heard many a voice, yours does not stand out.” You try your best to remain calm, try your very best to remain still so as to not agitate him. “Just tell me who you are and what you want from me.”

“I am Lord Armitage Hux. Your uncle has crossed the English king once too many times. I am to bring you back as a ransom.” Armitage crouches down, his knee now pinning you as his voice is slimy in your ear when he whispers, “Dead or alive.”

“What good is a ransom dead?” You ask, genuinely curious.

He stands back up, walks away from you, hangs about in the doorway.

In the small beat of silence, you hear the sound of an army just outside, the sound of a battalion – all of this to capture just one princess?

“You best watch your mouth, your highness.” Armitage – for you dare not give him the respect of his title – taunts, “For I have many a man here who has not felt the comfort of a woman’s touch in quite some time.”

It is disgusting, what he suggests, and your stomach sinks.

“You wouldn’t dare.” You go deathly still, and he only reaches out a hand, a gloved finger brushing down your cheek as you tremble with rage. 

“Don’t tempt me.” He replies softly.

You turn your head to bite him, hard, clamp your teeth down into his finger and do your very best to sever it. The leather is too thick, and he backhands you with a hard _crack, _as he calls for guards.

They pour into the room, and you grow so filled with rage that it takes three men to restrain you as you begin to kick and scream and fight against their hold, against these bonds.

“You will be slaughtered, all of you!” You can feel the heat in your face when you bare your teeth, “Every single one of you – my guard, he is on his way right this very moment, he will find me and he will spear your hearts with his sword and he will – ”

“You talk too much.” Armitage slaps you again, this time with a hand that is adorned with rings, and your mouth rings copper with blood.

“You are Irish! How dare you betray your people this way! How dare you side with the English with all the terror they have brought – get off me! Get your filthy fucking hands off me!” You scream and shout, kick though your feet are weighed down by the iron chains.

“Oh she’s feisty, isn’t she?” Armitage laughs, and it is as sinister as it is cruel.

You mentally redact your statement from earlier, about there being no evil men. This was an evil man if you had ever seen one.

“Sir Ren will have your heads mounted on pikes to be displayed for all the land.” You spit on the floor at his feet, and this, for some reason, is the thing that makes him fault.

“…Sir Ren?” Armitage asks, turning slowly to frown at you, scowl at you, “You don’t mean, _Kylo Ren_, do you?” He asks.

He is afraid.

By God, he is afraid.

“The very same.” Your chest fills with pride for your guard, as Armitage’s face twitches.

“He is not real – he is a legend.” He scoffs, and the men around you murmur in shock, in a similar manner as the nobles and peasants from the feast all that time ago had done.

“A myth!” One calls out in disbelief,

“A ghost!” Another supplants.

You shake your head, eyes locked dead on the soulless gaze of your captor.

“He is more real than you could ever imagine. And when he sees the state of my face, the dirt on my clothes, he will take great pleasure in tearing you limb from limb.” You promise, for oh, that is a promise.

A promise which is soon supported with reality, as not long after those words leave your lips, do the sound of drums ring clear in the air.

The army outside has spotted an enemy, and you are seized with both relief and terror, for Sir Ren is one man, and this battalion is fifty strong.

“Who is it?” Armitage snaps, races outside with the guards which follow him.

You go as far as your bindings let you, which truly isn’t much, only enough to get to the doorway of your cell. 

“Please please please.” You bite your lip, squinting through the rain.

“Shut up.” Armitage hisses, but you are filled with adrenaline, can feel it thrumming through you.

“If that is who I hope it is, you will regret the day you were born.” You laugh, and he only grabs you, shakes you roughly, so rough that the chains rattle, bruise against your calves from where they hit your flesh.

“I said shut up! After that man!” He barks orders at his troops.

Ten men gather their weapons and run into the mist, and you think they cannot be serious, they _cannot _be serious. You have seen the damage your guard as done to ten men, you have seen firsthand how it is not but the smallest effort for him. You cannot see, you wish you could see, but there are screams and shouts in the distance barely hidden by the pounding pounding pounding of rain against the earth.

You cannot be sure – cannot dare to hope – but you believe one of the screams is not of pain, it is of _fury_.

Armitage throws you to the ground once more as he leaves to command his troops, and you take the opportunity to pry at your bindings once again. The rain helps, and though it is a tight fit, a fit which scrapes your skin raw, which leaves it red and bleeding, you are able to slide your hands through the iron shackles, you are able to free them.

While Armitage is distracted, you use iron against iron, thinking about Sir Ren and his thousand hours crafting his armor, his eight hundred hours making his sword, as sparks fly in between the metal as you try try try to get it to crack.

“Next group!” Armitage shouts, “Archers! At the ready!”

Your pulse quickens and you are desperate, you slam the shackles from which you have freed your hands, against the ones which bind your legs, wishing you had the strength of a knight to save you.

It does not work, and you grow frantic, for the drums beat louder and the lightning streaks across the sky and more and more men run into the mist, more men run with swords drawn, more men aim their bows high. They do not bother lighting their arrows, for the rain would immediately douse the flame, but you wish they would, if only so you could see the face of your rescuer, so that you could know it was him.

You hear the clang of sword-fighting, you hear the screams, and yes, _yes _that is the voice of your man, of your guard your knight your lover your _king. _You could sob, you could yell and shout with relief when you hear his battle-cry, the fact that you can hear it at all. This means that he must be advancing, he must be coming closer closer closer, and Armitage’s voice shakes when he demands,

“Next group!”

This is the third set of ten men, and you grow worried, for there is no way to know if Sir Ren has been injured, no way to know. You abandon your task of trying to break the shackles around your feet, and instead aim to break their bonding from the wall.

This comes easier, you think, as you slam away the rock which holds the chains secure. It is not easy work, and you are drenched in sweat. Your arms are numb from the effort, for these chains are not light, they are not meant to be broken.

Well, you think, neither are you.

“Next group!” You hear Armitage scream, and now he is truly panicked, you can tell in his voice, can tell from the way that his men still shout, still scream, can tell from the way this hasn’t ended yet.

You have renewed faith – in both yourself and your guard, and with each boom of thunder and each crack of lightning, you strike the stone with iron, you send sparks flying against it, until finally, _finally _it rips from the wall.

Frantic, you gather the chains up as much as you can in your arms, and run out of your cell.

Looking around in a panic, you spot him, Armitage with his sword pointed as he commands with desperation, “Final group!”

With all your might, you use the rain to your advantage as you wrestle him to the ground, trying your best not to be trampled by the final ten troops that obey their General’s orders. Armitage fights back, but he is powerless once you loop the chains around his neck, once you twist them just so that you may choke him as you pull tightly.

He gasps and pleads for air, but you give him no mercy. You would never give mercy again, to those who did not deserve it.

As the fight rages on in the rain, you bear the brutal frigid downpour in nothing other than your torn and bloodied smock as you choke this man – this _rat_ – to death, shouting just from the effort. It is your shout, that does it, that captures the attention of your rescuer.

“(Y/N)!!” Your name, just your name, rings out loud and clear and true, it is a scream so defiant.

His defiance will surely shake the stars.

“Yes!” You cannot contain it, the cry that rips from your lips as you fall to your knees, as you let yourself drop the chains which have done their job, have killed this man underneath your feet.

He has slain them all, Sir Ren has.

He walks towards you, blade practically glowing crimson at his side as he walks towards you, too tired to run. He has fought so valiantly, so bravely, he has used all his energy.

So you, you run to him.

With a slashed face and soaked through to the bone in nothing but your linen smock to clothe you, you run to him, and the closer you get the more clearly you can see him as he emerges from the mist, hair plastered to his head, armor black as night – save for the single strip of white silk he has tied around his bicep. 

When you leap into his arms it is as if the whole universe celebrates; the largest and most bright display of lightning illuminates the earth for so long you almost forget it is night, almost forget it is raining.

He kisses you, a hard press of lips against your own, and you can taste blood in his mouth – or is that yours? It does not matter, for you are together once more, and somewhere, somewhere in the distance, a choir sings as you kiss and kiss and kiss, reunited.

“Did they hurt you?” He asks, voice hoarse from all his shouting, all his effort.

You cling to him, and he winces, and you see that there are deep stab wounds from where his armor has not protected him, and you panic.

“_You_ are injured, please, you must lie down.” You cry, for of course you are crying, how can you not? He found you, he saved you.

“No, only if they had harmed you would I feel any pain.” He says, his hand pushing your sopping hair out of your face so he may see you better. “It’s cold.”

You kiss him, and you laugh against his lips, because you are so in love, you are _so _in love.

“I never minded the cold much.” You reply, leaning your forehead against his own as he smiles, remembering a day at the brook not so long ago.

The rain slows to a stop, and though the sun does not make a dramatic appearance, there is certainly enough light to see the damage that Sir Ren has done.

Fifty bodies lay on the floor, dismembered, disemboweled, the ground more red than it is green. You glance to the fallen general, and are proud when you can count fifty-one.

“I spent two days looking to find you.” Sir Ren begins to cry as he holds you close, as he kisses all over your face, all across your neck, your hands, falls to his knees and embraces your stomach, winds his arms around your middle as he weeps into your smock, “I thought – I didn’t know what I might find, when I did. To see you here, to see you alive, has me more thankful than I have been for anything in my life.”

“Take me home.” You say, for you want nothing more than this, want nothing more than to be with him, and Sir Ren takes no greater pleasure in whistling for Sam.

* * *

Armitage did not take you very far, it would seem, for after a two day’s search, it turned out only a full night’s ride was all it took to bring you back to Alderaan from the Unknown Regions in which you had been held.

In the morning, when the sun peeks out from behind the clouds and the birds chirp, you and Sir Ren turn your face to the light, smile against its warmth. The night had been long, neither of you had slept, urging Sam onward and onward.

You are met at the castle gates with a committee, just as you had been on the very first day. This time there are many more people, all of whom rush to your aid, to Sir Ren’s, to Sam’s. The three of you have arrived caked in blood, and from the moment you were spotted coming over the hill, you had heard the call for medics.

The entire royal family is at the gate, and when Sam comes to a running stop directly outside them, the very same squire helps you down from the horse.

“Sir Dameron, if you would allow my guard a day’s rest for the joust – ” You begin, but the knight holds up a hand to stop you.

“There is no need.” He says, and anger flares in your chest.

“But he is injured!” You exclaim, and Sir Dameron realizes what you must be thinking, shakes his head.

“I will not rule. I have thought long and hard on this matter, over the course of the fortnight you have been here. It has shown me my true desires, none of which involve the crown.” Sir Dameron shocks you all by proclaiming, shocks everyone, everyone except Queen Leia, and the handsome young nobleman who stands at Sir Dameron’s side, the very same which Sir Dameron had looked so longingly at, the very first night.

“You mean to say, you are stepping down?” You ask, voicing aloud for yourself what he has insinuated.

“Yes, although to me, it feels like a step up.” Sir Dameron admits with a chuckle, and it is the first time you find him truly, genuinely, charming.

“Does the Queen know?” You ask, because you must ask, because she is right there and scowling at you.

“Yes, she is not pleased, but I have spent my life trying to please her. From now on, I shall live trying to only please myself, and my lover.” Sir Dameron says, squeezing the hand of the man, “Lady (Y/N), this is Finn. It is my honor to introduce you.”

The men look at one another, and you can see nothing but love, and your chest warms to know that you had been right all along, you had.

“Where will you go?” You ask, but Sir Dameron only shrugs, still gazing into the eyes of his most loved companion.

“I should hope we may fuck off to the mountains, build a lodge there and live among the wood.” He says, making you laugh, before blushing, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck, “Thank you for being so adamantly against me.”

“I meant no real offense.” You grin.

From behind you, Sir Ren dismounts his horse. You wonder what will happen now, now that all this has transpired. You wonder if Sir Ren has proved himself to his mother, his brother, his people. You wonder, but you don’t have to wonder for long, as Sir Dameron takes a step towards him.

“It looks as though there will be no joust today.” He says, extending a hand, an open palm for Sir Ren to take.

You could practically cheer when he does, when they exchange a firm shake, but instead you simply lean yourself back against your man, your beloved.

“No.” Sir Ren agrees, before stepping around you and quirking a small smile, “But there still may be a feast.”

You frown, for you know not of his meaning.

He goes to Sam, reaches inside one of her knapsack, rummages around for something.

When he has finally found it, he makes his way back to you, and caked in blood and dirt and sweat and tears, he slowly slowly slowly lowers himself, so that he is upon but one knee before you.

“They say, that when an oyster rises from its resting-place to the surface of the sea, it opens its mouth and takes in some heavenly dew, and the rays of the sun shine around it; thus there grows within the stone a most precious, shining pearl indeed, conceived from the heavenly dew and given luster by the rays of the sun.” He delivers this speech, the most you have ever truly heard him speak, as he uncovers a piece of jewelry, from the clamshell of his hands.

It is a band of braided gold, the top of which is a hexagonal setting for which a large pearl has been placed. It is beautiful, and he holds it up to the light, holds it up to the sun, holds it up to you.

“And though this ring may not compare to even a shade of your beauty, I do believe that nothing short of heaven would be worthy of resting atop your finger, nothing worth less than all my stars that I could command.” He says, as your knees grow weak and you find your hand shakes as you give it to him.

“Oh, Sir Ren.” You whisper, nodding, cannot even bring yourself to utter the word _yes _for you are so overwhelmed with his love.

And he grins, the most beautiful smile the world has ever seen, when he slides the ring onto your finger, when it is a perfect fit, when he grabs you about the middle and twirls you round and round, when the crowd erupts into cheers, when he leans his forehead down against yours and says,

“Call me Kylo.”


End file.
